For anyone who’s still clinging to the image of Vic Chesnutt as a mostly-acoustic Southern gothic folkie, it’s time to give that idea up. Though his earliest albums were often rooted in such sensibilities – debut album Little in particular – there’s always been a strong current of experimentalism and electricity scattered throughout Chesnutt’s canon. Though such songs were usually structured around mostly-acoustic melodies and traditional structures with Chesnutt’s ragged voice often providing a sharp contrast, others like “Drunk” and “Old Hotel” hinted at such harder edges.
Chesnutt’s last couple releases have made these edges more obvious, albeit to mixed results. Ghetto Bells, which to these damaged ears sounded willfully difficult and today still comes across as mostly ponderous and plodding, found the musician experimenting heavily with various musical textures and production techniques. 2007’s North Star Deserter is perhaps Chesnutt’s most musically aggressive and abrasive album to date. Though that album sported the occasional downbeat song, it was overwhelmingly a damn loud record, full of distortion and other noises that made all the windows in the neighborhood shake.
Dark Developments combines these disparate aspects of Chesnutt’s music and also adds some new tricks along the way. Assisted by (genuflect please) Elf Power and frequent backing band, the Amorphous Strums, it’s the most accessible and consistently good album Chesnutt’s released since The Salesman and Bernadette. Those Vicophiles who still prefer his more melodic songs as well as those who take their Vic with a heavy dose of electricity will both be satisfied.
What’s most noticeable on this album is the way subtle melodies and background vocals are mixed with muscular and sometimes harsh musical arrangements. Nearly every song features a full onslaught of such vocals, which both compliment the melodies and reinforce the collaborative nature of the album. You won’t find many “Dodge” moments here; Chesnutt’s voice is usually just one of many throughout these songs. “Teddy Bear,” “Bilocating Dog,” and “And How” are close to being group sing-alongs, though the subject matter is a far cry from your classic community Kumbayas.
Other songs augment these backing vocals with enough distortion, fuzz, and noise to ensure some ruptured eardrums when played at maximum volume. The subtly-titled “Little Fucker” barrels in with harsh and loud guitars like a kick upside the head. “We Are Mean” carries a similarly aggressive tone; the last minute or so of the song is a racket of swirling noise. Whereas North Star Deserter sometimes seemed to intentionally disregard melody just for the sake of clang-boom-steam, even the louder songs this time around accentuate each song’s melody.
Though playing the game of lyrical analysis is always dicey, some themes recur throughout the album. Several songs are built around wholesome things like anger, disgust, and cynicism. Chesnutt sneers a litany of insults in “Little Fucker,” leaving the unnamed F-bomber in question to “Dry up in the sun/Like a raisin/Or a leather skeleton,” derisively concluding, “He’s good riddance.” In the wryly humorous and bouncy “And How,” Chesnutt takes some more shots at a hapless victim, suggesting that the individual “Open up your trash/Then go take a bath/You’ll need one.”
Like many of Chesnutt’s earlier songs, this release is rife with images of death and decay, often accompanied with dark humor. “Stop the Horse” references a possibly deceased politician whose age might now be counted in dirt years, with Chesnutt singing that he “Can already smell the county bloat.” The upbeat singing of “Teddy Bear” betrays the bleak statement that “He ain’t never coming back;” though who or what the Teddy Bear refers to is open to interpretation.
“Bilocating Dog” is pure dark comedy, complete with a morbid sense of humor and skewed rhyme scheme: “Johnny was a terrier/He had his first seizure/At the feet of old Auntie Lee/You should of heard her screaming.” It should also be noted that this emphasis on death is reflected in the album’s artwork; the painting included on the back cover, with its numerous political undertones, is itself worthy of close examination.
Though some of the new songs are occasionally reminiscent of Chesnutt’s previous songs – opening track “Mystery,” with is prominent harmonica and minimal instrumentation, wouldn’t be out of place on Is the Actor Happy? – Dark Developments marks a noticeable stylistic shift for the artist. Chesnutt’s singing becomes more controlled with each subsequent album; the days when he’d stretch a word like “Florida” into 14 syllables accompanied by sparse instrumentation are long gone. With musical and vocal assists from Elf Power and the Amorphous Strums, the album successfully merges Chesnutt’s penchant for melody with his more experimental and electric tendencies.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Friday, October 24, 2008
Music Review - Sleepy John Estes - On 80 Highway
Recorded just three years before his death in 1977 (Elvis Presley wasn’t the only musician of note to die that year), On 80 Highway is a collection of 17 studio tracks by blues vocalist, guitarist, and songwriter Sleepy John Estes. Accompanied by longtime cohort Hammie Nixon on vocals, harmonica, and that most underrated of instruments, the kazoo, Estes offers rough and evocative interpretations of traditional songs, as well as a couple of his own songs.
First the obvious: this CD most likely will not appeal to a wide audience; it’s not going to set the charts aflame and it’s probably not going to posthumously catapult Estes into the spotlight. You won’t hear these songs during a particularly heart-wrenching and overwrought emotional moment on one of the many current indistinguishable television dramas, nor will any of these songs make the cut on the next Guitar Hero video game. But for fans of blues music or those simply interested in the rich history of how traditional songs are reinvented and reworked, On 80 Highway is a welcome release.
In many ways the album falls neatly within the boundaries of the blues, both in terms of subject matter and style. Songs like “Holy Spirit,” “When The Saints Go Marching In,” and “Do Lord Remember Me” cover familiar religious ground, two versions of “President Kennedy” are reminders as to how the blues could be both topical and political, and songs like “Corrine Corrina’ and “Mary Come On Home” are laments for the gal who got away. The specter of death is overtly invoked in some of the songs – Estes’ aggressive take on “I’ll Be Glad When You’re Dead” in particular – while Estes’ own “Brownsville Blues” also hints at mortality. And in true blues fashion, there’s also at least one bawdy and suggestive track as well, in the form of “Potatoe (Dan Quayle alert!) Diggin’ Man.”
The traits that defined Estes as a unique bluesman are apparent throughout the session. His guitar playing, never considered to be outstanding or top-notch, is passable but rough, with the occasional bum chord being noticeable. In many ways this warts-and-all approach actually enhances this release; it captures the singer at a particular moment of time, seemingly unconcerned with such technical shortcomings.
Though Nixon provides excellent textures to many of the songs – his harmonica and kazoo playing ranges from subtle and reserved to frenzied and manic, and also compensates for the singer’s sometimes shaky guitar work – Estes’ unique voice is what really carries these songs. Estes’ approach has often been described as “crying the blues,” which is still an apt description. His voice carries an emotional weight to it; in his mid-70s at the time of this recording, Estes’ voice is plaintive, weathered, and worn.
The album also offers interested fans another chance to revisit Estes’ often-tragic life. Completely blind at the time of this recording, Estes lived in poverty and anonymity in Brownsville, Tennessee for much of his life. Because he tended to sing like an old man, even in his youth, it was assumed that he had been dead for years as he seemingly dropped off the blues map (Samuel Charters and blues historian Bob Koester, who provides liner notes for this release, are credited with “finding” Estes in 1962 and getting him to resume recording and touring). After a long professional recording and touring career that started in the 1920s, Estes died of a stroke in 1977.
While some blues aficionados might argue that On 80 Highway doesn’t carry the power and emotional qualities of Estes’ earlier songs (his recordings for Victor Records, Decca, and Bluebird still sound relevant today), it’s still a welcome release for one of the blues genre’s most enigmatic and fascinating figures.
First the obvious: this CD most likely will not appeal to a wide audience; it’s not going to set the charts aflame and it’s probably not going to posthumously catapult Estes into the spotlight. You won’t hear these songs during a particularly heart-wrenching and overwrought emotional moment on one of the many current indistinguishable television dramas, nor will any of these songs make the cut on the next Guitar Hero video game. But for fans of blues music or those simply interested in the rich history of how traditional songs are reinvented and reworked, On 80 Highway is a welcome release.
In many ways the album falls neatly within the boundaries of the blues, both in terms of subject matter and style. Songs like “Holy Spirit,” “When The Saints Go Marching In,” and “Do Lord Remember Me” cover familiar religious ground, two versions of “President Kennedy” are reminders as to how the blues could be both topical and political, and songs like “Corrine Corrina’ and “Mary Come On Home” are laments for the gal who got away. The specter of death is overtly invoked in some of the songs – Estes’ aggressive take on “I’ll Be Glad When You’re Dead” in particular – while Estes’ own “Brownsville Blues” also hints at mortality. And in true blues fashion, there’s also at least one bawdy and suggestive track as well, in the form of “Potatoe (Dan Quayle alert!) Diggin’ Man.”
The traits that defined Estes as a unique bluesman are apparent throughout the session. His guitar playing, never considered to be outstanding or top-notch, is passable but rough, with the occasional bum chord being noticeable. In many ways this warts-and-all approach actually enhances this release; it captures the singer at a particular moment of time, seemingly unconcerned with such technical shortcomings.
Though Nixon provides excellent textures to many of the songs – his harmonica and kazoo playing ranges from subtle and reserved to frenzied and manic, and also compensates for the singer’s sometimes shaky guitar work – Estes’ unique voice is what really carries these songs. Estes’ approach has often been described as “crying the blues,” which is still an apt description. His voice carries an emotional weight to it; in his mid-70s at the time of this recording, Estes’ voice is plaintive, weathered, and worn.
The album also offers interested fans another chance to revisit Estes’ often-tragic life. Completely blind at the time of this recording, Estes lived in poverty and anonymity in Brownsville, Tennessee for much of his life. Because he tended to sing like an old man, even in his youth, it was assumed that he had been dead for years as he seemingly dropped off the blues map (Samuel Charters and blues historian Bob Koester, who provides liner notes for this release, are credited with “finding” Estes in 1962 and getting him to resume recording and touring). After a long professional recording and touring career that started in the 1920s, Estes died of a stroke in 1977.
While some blues aficionados might argue that On 80 Highway doesn’t carry the power and emotional qualities of Estes’ earlier songs (his recordings for Victor Records, Decca, and Bluebird still sound relevant today), it’s still a welcome release for one of the blues genre’s most enigmatic and fascinating figures.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Music Review - Skeletons - Money
Sometimes you just need a relaxing, gentle and unobtrusively quiet album. Something to calm your nerves, convince you the world isn't heading straight for the shitter and reinforce your belief that the mortal coil to which you're currently attached won't spiral hopelessly out of control as you sleep at night. Something that raises your spirits, keeps the wolves (at least momentarily) at the door, and maybe even brings a few laughs or moments of joy, however fleeting or temporary.
Money, the latest release from indie band Skeletons, is not that album.
Abrasive and jarring, with enough abrupt musical stops, starts and stylistic changes to give the listener an acute case of vertigo, it's an unsettling and disorienting listen. It blends guitars, drums, keyboards and a small army of horns with experimental electronic noises and beats, often mashed into disquieting throb. Yet if you're wired a certain way - and if you're reading this review on this particular website, you probably are - it's an innovative, compelling and addictive album.
The band, founded by lead singer Matt Mehlan and at this time including Jon Leland, Tony Lowe, and Jason McMahon, has certainly traversed such ground previously. 2005's Git and 2007's Lucas both relied heavily on divergent musical styles and movements within their songs; no sooner was a particular melody or rhythm established before it was violently abandoned in favor of a new one. Though both those albums occasionally sounded almost overly clinical in their precision and instrumental contrasts, suggesting an inordinate amount of post-production "fine-tuning," they were still unique enough to warrant some much-deserved attention in indie circles.
For the most part, {Money} is more successful in this atmospheric approach than those two previous albums; it sounds rawer and less polished, even if the press release's claim that the album was recorded live is a tough sell.
The album carries an air of claustrophobia; opening track "Fill My Pockets Full" repeats a monotonous keyboard line against a backdrop of bleating car horns. Other tracks reinforce the sudden and unnerving musical shifts that characterize much of the album. "The Things," "Ripper a.k.a. The Pillows," "Stepper a.k.a. Work" and "Eleven (It'll Rain!)" incorporate horns, drums and guitars with various electronic noises and pulses in a repeating pattern only to short-circuit before the listener has a chance to get grounded, each song shifting to disparate and often violent new musical thoughts. Mehlan's falsetto voice creates an odd effect against the music; at times somewhat reminiscent of Thom Yorke, he tends to sing at the same pace regardless of the instrumentation.
These various musical ticks and tendencies are most successfully synthesized on the near-12 minute "Booom! (Money)." The song opens with guitars, drums and a shitload of electronic pops and clicks to simulate what sounds like cash registers, Mehlan's voice slightly above the fracas, until the song dissolves into a cacophony of noise that lasts for damn near seven minutes. Through either sheer coincidence or intent, the song (like much of the album) implies a long list of impeccable influences: Velvet Underground, Dub Housing-era Pere Ubu, and especially the Stooges (in this case, "L.A. Blues").
Along with plenty of references to the almighty baksheesh, the lyrics reflect the restlessness and dissatisfaction implied in the song's frequently shifting instrumental textures. "Stepper a.k.a. Work" includes enough angst and pessimism to make every aging flannel-clad grunge obsessive proud. "What I thought I wanted was a little bit of hope," Mehlan deadpans, concluding with the cheery statement that "I'm gonna get paid enough to survive / So that I quit complaining for once in my life."
Other songs imply that coping with daily life requires a fair amount of self-delusion; "There is a simple way to get through the day / If you like magic tricks," Mehlan advises in the choir-like chant of "Unrelentinglessness." The album's outlook is bleak; "The Things" references "dead men stuck to the river's floor," while the album's closing track, with its snarled and distorted repeated warning of "it'll rain", sounds like an unavoidable statement of impending doom. "Get your suntan while you still can," Mehlan warns.
If you're over a certain age and your last name isn't Waits, this album might seem best suited for use in driving brutal dictators out of hiding. Certainly it's a loud and intense album whose many instrumental shifts border on being sadistic. It's disorienting and unsettling, and will likely cause a sustaining ringing in your ears. And that's a good thing.
Money, the latest release from indie band Skeletons, is not that album.
Abrasive and jarring, with enough abrupt musical stops, starts and stylistic changes to give the listener an acute case of vertigo, it's an unsettling and disorienting listen. It blends guitars, drums, keyboards and a small army of horns with experimental electronic noises and beats, often mashed into disquieting throb. Yet if you're wired a certain way - and if you're reading this review on this particular website, you probably are - it's an innovative, compelling and addictive album.
The band, founded by lead singer Matt Mehlan and at this time including Jon Leland, Tony Lowe, and Jason McMahon, has certainly traversed such ground previously. 2005's Git and 2007's Lucas both relied heavily on divergent musical styles and movements within their songs; no sooner was a particular melody or rhythm established before it was violently abandoned in favor of a new one. Though both those albums occasionally sounded almost overly clinical in their precision and instrumental contrasts, suggesting an inordinate amount of post-production "fine-tuning," they were still unique enough to warrant some much-deserved attention in indie circles.
For the most part, {Money} is more successful in this atmospheric approach than those two previous albums; it sounds rawer and less polished, even if the press release's claim that the album was recorded live is a tough sell.
The album carries an air of claustrophobia; opening track "Fill My Pockets Full" repeats a monotonous keyboard line against a backdrop of bleating car horns. Other tracks reinforce the sudden and unnerving musical shifts that characterize much of the album. "The Things," "Ripper a.k.a. The Pillows," "Stepper a.k.a. Work" and "Eleven (It'll Rain!)" incorporate horns, drums and guitars with various electronic noises and pulses in a repeating pattern only to short-circuit before the listener has a chance to get grounded, each song shifting to disparate and often violent new musical thoughts. Mehlan's falsetto voice creates an odd effect against the music; at times somewhat reminiscent of Thom Yorke, he tends to sing at the same pace regardless of the instrumentation.
These various musical ticks and tendencies are most successfully synthesized on the near-12 minute "Booom! (Money)." The song opens with guitars, drums and a shitload of electronic pops and clicks to simulate what sounds like cash registers, Mehlan's voice slightly above the fracas, until the song dissolves into a cacophony of noise that lasts for damn near seven minutes. Through either sheer coincidence or intent, the song (like much of the album) implies a long list of impeccable influences: Velvet Underground, Dub Housing-era Pere Ubu, and especially the Stooges (in this case, "L.A. Blues").
Along with plenty of references to the almighty baksheesh, the lyrics reflect the restlessness and dissatisfaction implied in the song's frequently shifting instrumental textures. "Stepper a.k.a. Work" includes enough angst and pessimism to make every aging flannel-clad grunge obsessive proud. "What I thought I wanted was a little bit of hope," Mehlan deadpans, concluding with the cheery statement that "I'm gonna get paid enough to survive / So that I quit complaining for once in my life."
Other songs imply that coping with daily life requires a fair amount of self-delusion; "There is a simple way to get through the day / If you like magic tricks," Mehlan advises in the choir-like chant of "Unrelentinglessness." The album's outlook is bleak; "The Things" references "dead men stuck to the river's floor," while the album's closing track, with its snarled and distorted repeated warning of "it'll rain", sounds like an unavoidable statement of impending doom. "Get your suntan while you still can," Mehlan warns.
If you're over a certain age and your last name isn't Waits, this album might seem best suited for use in driving brutal dictators out of hiding. Certainly it's a loud and intense album whose many instrumental shifts border on being sadistic. It's disorienting and unsettling, and will likely cause a sustaining ringing in your ears. And that's a good thing.
Music Review – Lucinda Williams – Little Honey
How do I put this? The latest release from Lucinda Williams, Little Honey, drips with enough romantic schmaltz to make Romeo seem like a lightweight and to keep Pepto Bismol in business well into the next millennium. It's the second consecutive underwhelming album from the normally reliable musician; her previous effort, West, was the first real dud of her career and one of the worst directionally-named albums this side of Elvis Costello's pseudo-jazz groaner North. Though Williams bristled in various interviews that fans and critics never really gave that album a fair chance, to these ravaged ears the criticism was mostly well-founded. West was simply a dull and listless album.
As Williams readily acknowledges, many of the songs on Little Honey are unabashedly borne out of recent positive events in her personal life: specifically, she's cuckoo for producer and fiancé Tom Overby. Which is wonderful news; as the old bluesman once sang, everybody needs somebody. But make for an outstanding album it does not.
Opening track "Real Love" kicks off this saccharine fest with rollicking guitars reminiscent of other songs from Williams' back catalog. Throughout the album, the band gives it their best shot (badass drummer Butch Norton in particular), but the song's maudlin sentiment kills any momentum the music attempts to establish. As if to make the song's message painfully clear (for those of you who weren't paying attention), Williams uses the big L word a whopping 28 times.
Other songs also reflect this theme but take a much more deliberate musical approach. "Tears of Joy," "The Knowing," and "Rarity" each plod along at an agonizingly slow pace, with no real payoff. In particular, "Rarity" seems much longer than its already hefty eight-minute running time and ensures that the album's overall pace remains sporadic and dodgy. The three songs also sound remarkably similar, with only the occasional instrumental flourish or background vocal (including some truly over-the-top ones on "Tears of Joy") to distinguish one from the other.
What also makes this album so frustrating is that there are some solid songs scattered amongst the detritus. "Honey Bee" is perhaps the most ballsy and aggressive song Williams has ever recorded. It's damn loud - drums and a whole mess of guitars flail away as the singer practically shouts some suggestive lyrics that would make puritans in the audience blush. "Jailhouse Tears" is a humorous and somewhat poignant story of a "three-time loser" and his long-suffering significant other. Sung as a duet with Costello and wearing its country music influences proudly, the singers each offer their side of the story; Costello's assertion of "Look at me/ I'm clean now" is wryly dismissed by Williams' unconvinced female character: "You're so full of shit."
Other songs such as"If Wishes Were Horses" and "Circles and X's" are supported by gorgeous melodies and deal in the usual topics of broken hearts and fractured relationships that Williams has mined on previous albums. "Circles and X's," written all the way back in 1985 is a moving snapshot of a relationship on the skids and is the album's standout track. "The vows have all been broken" the narrator laments as her man heads for the door, poetically noticing how "sunlight reflects off the silver" on the man's finger.
These moments are unfortunately rare on Little Honey; its meandering and lovey-dovey songs are always lurking around the corner like the crazy uncle you're trying to avoid at the family reunion. And like that crazy uncle, once you run into these songs it's a total buzzkill. This isn't to say that Williams should create Car Wheels On a Gravel Road II either, nor does it mean criticism of this release is nothing more than complaining by Gravel Roadites clamoring for such a sequel. Certainly it's always nice to see an artist with an established reputation and musical style attempt new things, both musically and thematically. But sometimes those attempts fall short of the mark and the results are underwhelming. Little Honey is such an album.
As Williams readily acknowledges, many of the songs on Little Honey are unabashedly borne out of recent positive events in her personal life: specifically, she's cuckoo for producer and fiancé Tom Overby. Which is wonderful news; as the old bluesman once sang, everybody needs somebody. But make for an outstanding album it does not.
Opening track "Real Love" kicks off this saccharine fest with rollicking guitars reminiscent of other songs from Williams' back catalog. Throughout the album, the band gives it their best shot (badass drummer Butch Norton in particular), but the song's maudlin sentiment kills any momentum the music attempts to establish. As if to make the song's message painfully clear (for those of you who weren't paying attention), Williams uses the big L word a whopping 28 times.
Other songs also reflect this theme but take a much more deliberate musical approach. "Tears of Joy," "The Knowing," and "Rarity" each plod along at an agonizingly slow pace, with no real payoff. In particular, "Rarity" seems much longer than its already hefty eight-minute running time and ensures that the album's overall pace remains sporadic and dodgy. The three songs also sound remarkably similar, with only the occasional instrumental flourish or background vocal (including some truly over-the-top ones on "Tears of Joy") to distinguish one from the other.
What also makes this album so frustrating is that there are some solid songs scattered amongst the detritus. "Honey Bee" is perhaps the most ballsy and aggressive song Williams has ever recorded. It's damn loud - drums and a whole mess of guitars flail away as the singer practically shouts some suggestive lyrics that would make puritans in the audience blush. "Jailhouse Tears" is a humorous and somewhat poignant story of a "three-time loser" and his long-suffering significant other. Sung as a duet with Costello and wearing its country music influences proudly, the singers each offer their side of the story; Costello's assertion of "Look at me/ I'm clean now" is wryly dismissed by Williams' unconvinced female character: "You're so full of shit."
Other songs such as"If Wishes Were Horses" and "Circles and X's" are supported by gorgeous melodies and deal in the usual topics of broken hearts and fractured relationships that Williams has mined on previous albums. "Circles and X's," written all the way back in 1985 is a moving snapshot of a relationship on the skids and is the album's standout track. "The vows have all been broken" the narrator laments as her man heads for the door, poetically noticing how "sunlight reflects off the silver" on the man's finger.
These moments are unfortunately rare on Little Honey; its meandering and lovey-dovey songs are always lurking around the corner like the crazy uncle you're trying to avoid at the family reunion. And like that crazy uncle, once you run into these songs it's a total buzzkill. This isn't to say that Williams should create Car Wheels On a Gravel Road II either, nor does it mean criticism of this release is nothing more than complaining by Gravel Roadites clamoring for such a sequel. Certainly it's always nice to see an artist with an established reputation and musical style attempt new things, both musically and thematically. But sometimes those attempts fall short of the mark and the results are underwhelming. Little Honey is such an album.
Music Review – Various Artists – Johnny Cash Remixed
At the current rate, the number of posthumous Johnny Cash releases will soon surpass those that were released while the Man in Black was on this mortal coil. Perhaps this is to be expected; the music icon is now a veritable, uh, cash machine, and apparently there's a thirsty market for this material, much of which is previously-available material recycled and repackaged in new formats. These various releases have run the gamut from essential (Personal File is a must for any Cash fan) to the completely pointless (Chapter and Verse is nothing more than a reissued version of Cash reading from the King James bible, and a law should be passed to stop the ongoing flood of Cash Greatest Hits albums).
Johnny Cash Remixed falls somewhere in between. A collection of various hip hop artists performing remixed versions of both Cash standards and a few of his more obscure songs, it's not exactly a curiosity piece, but also isn't required listening for either Cash or rap fans. Equal parts exciting and creative, frustrating and absurd, it's an interesting but uneven take on how Cash's patented spare and stripped down music can be manipulated and bent to fit a completely disparate musical genre.
The most successful remixes are those that attempt to place Cash's songs in a modern context, either by adding lyrics that compliment the original words or by applying various beats, thwacks, and thumps to the melodies. Opening track "I Walk the Line" is reworked by QDT and Snoop Dogg into a mellow take on commitment and walking the straight and narrow. Excusing the usual business where Snoop announces his name at least once in every track he's involved in (which I suspect is actually required by his contract), he adds new lyrics that fit well within the song's context.
Alabama 3's remix of "Leave That Junk Alone," Kennedy's version of "Sugartime" and The Heavy's take on "Doin' My Time" incorporate driving rhythms that place the original songs' somewhat subdued instrumentation much higher in the mix. Alabama 3 also transforms the song into a modern cautionary tale about addiction and excess, with a set of original lyrics that show how some of Cash's most well-worn themes are remarkably similar to those found throughout the hip hop genre. In this version, Cash plays the role of bartender, preacher and all-around voice of reason; it's the album's most creative and striking interpretation as it bridges the vast stylistic differences between country and hip hop to find common ground in a shared subject matter.
The rest of the album's remixes are largely rote: vocals are distorted and clipped, certain lines or phrases are repeated ad nausea and throbbing beats you wouldn't want to hear first thing in the morning in the grip of a hangover continue without mercy. Philip Steir's take on "Get Rhythm" is pure twitchy starts and stops (ironic considering the song's title). Yet perhaps the most egregious offender is Sonny J's remix of "Country Boy." Complete with some truly heinous and overwrought background vocals, it bears a disturbing similarity to Will Smith's "Getting Jiggy With It." If there's a Hell, my guess is that this song is played on an endless loop.
These turds in the Cristal also unintentionally raise those pesky questions about how an icon's musical legacy should be preserved and interpreted posthumously. Though Cash's son John Carter is listed as one the three executive producers, it's probably fair to ask how much more can be bled from the stone. Ignoring the baksheesh-based motives that cynical fans rightly question, the seemingly endless compilations and reissues that are expurgated out on an annual basis still have some merit: if anything, they provide Cash novices with a vast number of starter kits from which to choose.
Nevertheless, it's hard to find much merit in this release. Though a few of the artists included succeed in the difficult balancing act of providing a hip hop perspective on Cash's country songs while also maintaining his overarching themes and characteristics, too many of the tracks are indistinguishable from the generic approaches so often applied to remixes. Fans looking for a consistently good album that reinterprets the music of Johnny Cash will ultimately be disappointed.
Johnny Cash Remixed falls somewhere in between. A collection of various hip hop artists performing remixed versions of both Cash standards and a few of his more obscure songs, it's not exactly a curiosity piece, but also isn't required listening for either Cash or rap fans. Equal parts exciting and creative, frustrating and absurd, it's an interesting but uneven take on how Cash's patented spare and stripped down music can be manipulated and bent to fit a completely disparate musical genre.
The most successful remixes are those that attempt to place Cash's songs in a modern context, either by adding lyrics that compliment the original words or by applying various beats, thwacks, and thumps to the melodies. Opening track "I Walk the Line" is reworked by QDT and Snoop Dogg into a mellow take on commitment and walking the straight and narrow. Excusing the usual business where Snoop announces his name at least once in every track he's involved in (which I suspect is actually required by his contract), he adds new lyrics that fit well within the song's context.
Alabama 3's remix of "Leave That Junk Alone," Kennedy's version of "Sugartime" and The Heavy's take on "Doin' My Time" incorporate driving rhythms that place the original songs' somewhat subdued instrumentation much higher in the mix. Alabama 3 also transforms the song into a modern cautionary tale about addiction and excess, with a set of original lyrics that show how some of Cash's most well-worn themes are remarkably similar to those found throughout the hip hop genre. In this version, Cash plays the role of bartender, preacher and all-around voice of reason; it's the album's most creative and striking interpretation as it bridges the vast stylistic differences between country and hip hop to find common ground in a shared subject matter.
The rest of the album's remixes are largely rote: vocals are distorted and clipped, certain lines or phrases are repeated ad nausea and throbbing beats you wouldn't want to hear first thing in the morning in the grip of a hangover continue without mercy. Philip Steir's take on "Get Rhythm" is pure twitchy starts and stops (ironic considering the song's title). Yet perhaps the most egregious offender is Sonny J's remix of "Country Boy." Complete with some truly heinous and overwrought background vocals, it bears a disturbing similarity to Will Smith's "Getting Jiggy With It." If there's a Hell, my guess is that this song is played on an endless loop.
These turds in the Cristal also unintentionally raise those pesky questions about how an icon's musical legacy should be preserved and interpreted posthumously. Though Cash's son John Carter is listed as one the three executive producers, it's probably fair to ask how much more can be bled from the stone. Ignoring the baksheesh-based motives that cynical fans rightly question, the seemingly endless compilations and reissues that are expurgated out on an annual basis still have some merit: if anything, they provide Cash novices with a vast number of starter kits from which to choose.
Nevertheless, it's hard to find much merit in this release. Though a few of the artists included succeed in the difficult balancing act of providing a hip hop perspective on Cash's country songs while also maintaining his overarching themes and characteristics, too many of the tracks are indistinguishable from the generic approaches so often applied to remixes. Fans looking for a consistently good album that reinterprets the music of Johnny Cash will ultimately be disappointed.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Interview with Paul Trynka, author of Iggy Pop: Open Up and Bleed
In his revealing and detailed biography Open Up and Bleed, Paul Trynka examines the life of Jim Osterberg, better known to music fans as Iggy Pop. Trynka, formerly the reviews editor of Mojo magazine from 1999 to 2003, uses both previously-available information and new interviews he conducted to create an exhaustive, informative, and sometimes startling character study of one of music’s most celebrated and notorious personas. In the following interview, Trynka discusses a variety of Iggy-related topics, including the nature of this persona and the toll it took on the musician’s mental state, the musician’s intense ambition and lasting musical legacy, and why an Iggy Pop tune just might be the single worst song of the 1980s.
Blogcritics (BC): A central theme of the book is the contrast between Jim Osterberg as a person and Iggy Pop as a musical persona. In many ways it’s hard to reconcile the polite, articulate, and almost genteel Jim Osterberg vs. the wild madman of Iggy Pop. Do you think it reached a point where the person was indistinguishable from the persona?
Paul Trynka (PT): The classic moment when Jim Osterberg lost control of Iggy Pop was, I think, when he was hospitalized in 1974. Although he was diagnosed with hypomania, a bipolar condition, the psychiatrist who treated him now thinks his problems were simply a product of his extravagant drug intake – and his out of control personae. Of course, it was gratifying to have a clinician confirm what others had suspected, and justify what became a central premise of the book.
BC: What do you think the biggest influences were in shaping this persona? Various people quoted in the book offer up a host of reasons for the musician’s behavior.
PT: Quite simply, it was audience hostility. Jim Osterberg took his ‘art’ very seriously – and when the early audiences rejected him, or mocked him, the Iggy character became a kind of psychic armor. It helped a lot – for a while. But, just as in the best, and worst, horror movies, the creation began to take on a life of its own.
BC: You suggest that maintaining this persona eventually began to take its toll on Osterberg’s mental state.
PT: Well, eventually the man had what was essentially a mental breakdown, and became a forlorn, pathetic figure. But I think it wasn’t so much maintaining the persona that caused the breakdown, as coping with his own apparent failure. Because Jim Osterberg was a very ambitious guy.
BC: This persona is one of the most infamous in music history. In the various interviews and research you conducted for the book, how difficult was it to sort the facts from the myths?
PT: After a while, you develop a nose for the stories that aren’t true, and of course there was endless cross-checking. I felt horrendously guilty about going back to people again and again to refine a story – but did it nonetheless. That said, there were events where different people’s accounts were simply incompatible, so I’d simply choose one person’s version and construct my account from that, mentioning this in the notes. Along the way, I had to drop a lot of juicy stories that turned out to be fictitious – but then I found just as many juicy new ones, including Iggy’s bizarre involvement with voodoo practitioners in Haiti!
BC: The book offers an overall sympathetic depiction of the musician, yet there are still plenty of unflattering moments included.
PT: Of course I felt a duty to be honest, to illustrate a man who was, in terms of dealing with other people, almost entirely selfish. But his gift to other people, to all of us, was his music – and, of course, the person who suffered most in the making of it was himself.
BC: What was the most thrilling or memorable thing about seeing Iggy Pop perform? What was the atmosphere like?
PT: Those who saw him in the 60s and 70s describe a visceral thrill and excitement – and also fear, that sense that anything could happen. Even today, you get a sense of that. I found it absolutely inspiring how he’s still borne along on the music, how this 60 year-old gentleman with a bad limp becomes a carefree child, skipping onto the stage like a spring lamb.
BC: Even now, the way he would confront the audience seems startling. It’s hard to imagine any band today doing this.
PT: I guess I've seen plenty of bands out on the edge, with the sense that it could all fall apart at any moment – that’s what makes music exciting. But these days, it seems like it’s simply a career that’s at stake; in Iggy’s prime, it seemed like it was his life that was at stake.
BC: Many times Iggy Pop seemed on the verge of mainstream success, both with The Stooges and later as a solo artist, yet it eluded him. What do you think were the major factors that contributed to this?
PT: They say pioneers get all the arrows. I think that’s true. It’s generally the band who put a gloss on something new who clean up in the charts. But it’s always the pioneers that are remembered, a decade or two on. Today, who remembers that Pat Boone had more pop hits than Little Richard?
BC: The drug use documented in the book is pretty staggering, and it’s been suggested that The Stooges’ music would have sounded far different without chemical assistance.
PT: A lot of their inspiration came from drugs – they certainly wouldn’t have sounded the same, and likely wouldn’t have sounded as good, without it. But it was a Faustian pact that left two bassists dead, plus plenty of other friends.
BC: David Bowie’s motives in hooking up with Iggy Pop have been questioned for years. What’s your take?
PT: The quick answer is that, first time around, their friendship benefited David, and that second time around, it benefited Iggy. But it’s more complex than that. I think Iggy’s own description of David, when he first met him, is pretty apposite. He called him “a not unkind person.”
BC: Has the Stooges’ limited recorded output somehow enhanced their legacy? Music fans sometimes find the idea of a band that releases a few brilliant albums, lives like complete lunatics for a while, and then flames out quickly quite romantic.
PT: Well, yes, that’s a large part of their appeal, that they had three albums that were, in a fucked-up kind of way, absolutely perfect. We don’t need anything else to justify their existence.
BC: Who did you find was the most surprising band or artist to cite The Stooges as an influence?
PT: I remember Robbie Williams namechecked him to me once. Go figure.
BC: Favorite Iggy Pop/Stooges album and song?
PT: It changes every day... I'll say Raw Power, because I’m in a London frame of mind at the moment. And the song would be “Success,” which (in the supreme example of ‘critics’ being wannabe musicians) I sang for my wife at our wedding two weeks ago!
BC: Least favorite Iggy Pop/Stooges album and song?
PT: There is a particularly horrible song called “Happy Man” – a few correspondents have attempted to get me to back down, but I maintain not only is it the worst song in Iggy’s catalogue, it’s one of the worst songs of the 1980s, and that’s saying something.
BC: Any particular favorite stories or anecdotes about Iggy Pop that either did or didn’t get included in the book?
PT: I remember doing a photo shoot with him in the mid 90s, in the Lower East Side on a sweltering hot day. There was a broken fire hydrant spouting water, and we were asking him to splash himself. Some local wags saw what was happening, sneaked up behind with a cold bucket of water and emptied it over him. I still have the photos that show him laughing. Whatever his faults, I can’t imagine anyone else doing the same.
Blogcritics (BC): A central theme of the book is the contrast between Jim Osterberg as a person and Iggy Pop as a musical persona. In many ways it’s hard to reconcile the polite, articulate, and almost genteel Jim Osterberg vs. the wild madman of Iggy Pop. Do you think it reached a point where the person was indistinguishable from the persona?
Paul Trynka (PT): The classic moment when Jim Osterberg lost control of Iggy Pop was, I think, when he was hospitalized in 1974. Although he was diagnosed with hypomania, a bipolar condition, the psychiatrist who treated him now thinks his problems were simply a product of his extravagant drug intake – and his out of control personae. Of course, it was gratifying to have a clinician confirm what others had suspected, and justify what became a central premise of the book.
BC: What do you think the biggest influences were in shaping this persona? Various people quoted in the book offer up a host of reasons for the musician’s behavior.
PT: Quite simply, it was audience hostility. Jim Osterberg took his ‘art’ very seriously – and when the early audiences rejected him, or mocked him, the Iggy character became a kind of psychic armor. It helped a lot – for a while. But, just as in the best, and worst, horror movies, the creation began to take on a life of its own.
BC: You suggest that maintaining this persona eventually began to take its toll on Osterberg’s mental state.
PT: Well, eventually the man had what was essentially a mental breakdown, and became a forlorn, pathetic figure. But I think it wasn’t so much maintaining the persona that caused the breakdown, as coping with his own apparent failure. Because Jim Osterberg was a very ambitious guy.
BC: This persona is one of the most infamous in music history. In the various interviews and research you conducted for the book, how difficult was it to sort the facts from the myths?
PT: After a while, you develop a nose for the stories that aren’t true, and of course there was endless cross-checking. I felt horrendously guilty about going back to people again and again to refine a story – but did it nonetheless. That said, there were events where different people’s accounts were simply incompatible, so I’d simply choose one person’s version and construct my account from that, mentioning this in the notes. Along the way, I had to drop a lot of juicy stories that turned out to be fictitious – but then I found just as many juicy new ones, including Iggy’s bizarre involvement with voodoo practitioners in Haiti!
BC: The book offers an overall sympathetic depiction of the musician, yet there are still plenty of unflattering moments included.
PT: Of course I felt a duty to be honest, to illustrate a man who was, in terms of dealing with other people, almost entirely selfish. But his gift to other people, to all of us, was his music – and, of course, the person who suffered most in the making of it was himself.
BC: What was the most thrilling or memorable thing about seeing Iggy Pop perform? What was the atmosphere like?
PT: Those who saw him in the 60s and 70s describe a visceral thrill and excitement – and also fear, that sense that anything could happen. Even today, you get a sense of that. I found it absolutely inspiring how he’s still borne along on the music, how this 60 year-old gentleman with a bad limp becomes a carefree child, skipping onto the stage like a spring lamb.
BC: Even now, the way he would confront the audience seems startling. It’s hard to imagine any band today doing this.
PT: I guess I've seen plenty of bands out on the edge, with the sense that it could all fall apart at any moment – that’s what makes music exciting. But these days, it seems like it’s simply a career that’s at stake; in Iggy’s prime, it seemed like it was his life that was at stake.
BC: Many times Iggy Pop seemed on the verge of mainstream success, both with The Stooges and later as a solo artist, yet it eluded him. What do you think were the major factors that contributed to this?
PT: They say pioneers get all the arrows. I think that’s true. It’s generally the band who put a gloss on something new who clean up in the charts. But it’s always the pioneers that are remembered, a decade or two on. Today, who remembers that Pat Boone had more pop hits than Little Richard?
BC: The drug use documented in the book is pretty staggering, and it’s been suggested that The Stooges’ music would have sounded far different without chemical assistance.
PT: A lot of their inspiration came from drugs – they certainly wouldn’t have sounded the same, and likely wouldn’t have sounded as good, without it. But it was a Faustian pact that left two bassists dead, plus plenty of other friends.
BC: David Bowie’s motives in hooking up with Iggy Pop have been questioned for years. What’s your take?
PT: The quick answer is that, first time around, their friendship benefited David, and that second time around, it benefited Iggy. But it’s more complex than that. I think Iggy’s own description of David, when he first met him, is pretty apposite. He called him “a not unkind person.”
BC: Has the Stooges’ limited recorded output somehow enhanced their legacy? Music fans sometimes find the idea of a band that releases a few brilliant albums, lives like complete lunatics for a while, and then flames out quickly quite romantic.
PT: Well, yes, that’s a large part of their appeal, that they had three albums that were, in a fucked-up kind of way, absolutely perfect. We don’t need anything else to justify their existence.
BC: Who did you find was the most surprising band or artist to cite The Stooges as an influence?
PT: I remember Robbie Williams namechecked him to me once. Go figure.
BC: Favorite Iggy Pop/Stooges album and song?
PT: It changes every day... I'll say Raw Power, because I’m in a London frame of mind at the moment. And the song would be “Success,” which (in the supreme example of ‘critics’ being wannabe musicians) I sang for my wife at our wedding two weeks ago!
BC: Least favorite Iggy Pop/Stooges album and song?
PT: There is a particularly horrible song called “Happy Man” – a few correspondents have attempted to get me to back down, but I maintain not only is it the worst song in Iggy’s catalogue, it’s one of the worst songs of the 1980s, and that’s saying something.
BC: Any particular favorite stories or anecdotes about Iggy Pop that either did or didn’t get included in the book?
PT: I remember doing a photo shoot with him in the mid 90s, in the Lower East Side on a sweltering hot day. There was a broken fire hydrant spouting water, and we were asking him to splash himself. Some local wags saw what was happening, sneaked up behind with a cold bucket of water and emptied it over him. I still have the photos that show him laughing. Whatever his faults, I can’t imagine anyone else doing the same.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Music Review - Various - 100 Greatest
An ambitious release from the Shout Factory label, 100 Greatest is a collection of, um, 500 audio clips of some of the most memorable and culturally-impacting speeches, events, pop culture figures, sports moments, and sleazy scandals of the last 100-plus years. With a primary focus on Western (i.e., American) history, and featuring an impressive amount of primary source material, it’s an outstanding and nearly exhaustive overview of the highs, lows, and in-betweens of the last century.
Organized thematically across five discs (with each disc also available individually), this set is certainly a true niche market item; it’s highly doubtful those crazy kids who are busy listening to Jonas Brothers bootlegs or watching reruns of The Hills for the show’s subtle plot nuances will have much interest in this release. Of course, their teachers will, as will history dweebs (er, fans), pop culture buffs, and those hapless guys everywhere trying to convince their skeptical dates that they are true intellectuals.
Disc 1 focuses on speeches and is perhaps the most engaging piece of this box set. The oratorical masterpieces or otherwise noteworthy speeches one would expect to find are included here – Martin Luther King, Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech, FDR’s “Day of Infamy” address after the attack on Pearl Harbor, the 1968 eulogy for Robert Kennedy, and Bill Clinton’s 1992 speech at the Democratic National Convention – and are still both emotionally moving and good primers of what it takes to be a persuasive public speaker. Taken as a whole, this disc offers insights into both the art of public speaking and the impact these speeches had on a specific era.
News stories that gripped the world (many before the days of 24-hour news channels) make up disc 2; equal parts uplifting and sobering, this disc alternates between euphoric moments of human achievement and triumph over scumbags and examples of abject horror and tragedy that suggest Darwin might have been wrong. In most cases, the selections chosen paint a vivid picture of how the event was viewed in its immediate aftermath. A palpable sense of joy runs through the entries that recount the fall of the Berlin Wall and VE Day in World War II. Shock and sorrow are apparent when the various broadcasts and reports address tragedies like the 1999 Columbine shootings, the 9/11 terrorist attacks, and the many assassinations that are recounted here. As an audio record of such events this disc is indispensable, though it frequently makes for unsettling, and emotional, listening.
Disc 3 is a bit dodgier. Billed as the 100 greatest personalities, the disc includes many of the usual suspects – Albert Einstein, Bob Dylan, Winston Churchill, and, er, Wernher von Braun, among others – but still excludes many historical figures. Perhaps this is inevitable; nevertheless, some the inclusions are fairly questionable – for example, cycling superman Lance Armstrong seems a much better fit on the disc 5. The exclusions could spark some serious debate; pick your favorite historical, musical, or cultural period and you will be able to name several people that “should” have been included.
Disc 4 tackles the 100 greatest scandals, itself a tough task given the seemingly endless nefarious plots, dirty deals, and shady shysters that have dotted the political and cultural landscape of the last 100 years. Undoubtedly there are enough scandals here to make a shady hedge fund manager or crooked politician proud, including the Clarence Thomas affair, the fall of Enron, and perhaps the gold standard of political scandals, the Watergate affair. Yet some of the inclusions are marginal at best, and the focus of the disc is weighted a bit too heavily on recent history; I suppose Alec Baldwin’s now infamous rant to his daughter is included for comedic relief. Other entries aren’t true scandals in the narrowest sense of the word and seem out of place here, such as Kurt Cobain’s suicide. Still, the disc is an enlightening, and in some ways perversely entertaining, look back at the parade of cons, crooks, and cheats that has marched through history.
Disc 5 includes audio clips from that most holy of sacred institutions: sports. Much of the attention is on baseball, including its dramatic highs (Willie Mays’ over-the-shoulder catch in 1954 and gimpy Kirk Gibson’s 1988 World Series home run), lows (strikes in both 1981 and 1994), and several events that for some steroidal reason have clearly lost the luster they once had (Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa’s historic 1998 seasons). Taken as a whole, this disc shows that some sports events have had a lasting cultural impact, outside of just being fodder for fantasy geeks. One doesn’t need to be a sports fanatic to enjoy this disc.
100 Greatest is a fascinating audio chronicle and is well worth the time it takes to listen to it. Although there are some shortcomings in this release – some of the inclusions and exclusions are debatable, the booklet is somewhat lacking in details, and the clips on each disc aren’t in any sort of chronological order – it is nevertheless a great snapshot of the key events and figures that have shaped modern history.
Organized thematically across five discs (with each disc also available individually), this set is certainly a true niche market item; it’s highly doubtful those crazy kids who are busy listening to Jonas Brothers bootlegs or watching reruns of The Hills for the show’s subtle plot nuances will have much interest in this release. Of course, their teachers will, as will history dweebs (er, fans), pop culture buffs, and those hapless guys everywhere trying to convince their skeptical dates that they are true intellectuals.
Disc 1 focuses on speeches and is perhaps the most engaging piece of this box set. The oratorical masterpieces or otherwise noteworthy speeches one would expect to find are included here – Martin Luther King, Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech, FDR’s “Day of Infamy” address after the attack on Pearl Harbor, the 1968 eulogy for Robert Kennedy, and Bill Clinton’s 1992 speech at the Democratic National Convention – and are still both emotionally moving and good primers of what it takes to be a persuasive public speaker. Taken as a whole, this disc offers insights into both the art of public speaking and the impact these speeches had on a specific era.
News stories that gripped the world (many before the days of 24-hour news channels) make up disc 2; equal parts uplifting and sobering, this disc alternates between euphoric moments of human achievement and triumph over scumbags and examples of abject horror and tragedy that suggest Darwin might have been wrong. In most cases, the selections chosen paint a vivid picture of how the event was viewed in its immediate aftermath. A palpable sense of joy runs through the entries that recount the fall of the Berlin Wall and VE Day in World War II. Shock and sorrow are apparent when the various broadcasts and reports address tragedies like the 1999 Columbine shootings, the 9/11 terrorist attacks, and the many assassinations that are recounted here. As an audio record of such events this disc is indispensable, though it frequently makes for unsettling, and emotional, listening.
Disc 3 is a bit dodgier. Billed as the 100 greatest personalities, the disc includes many of the usual suspects – Albert Einstein, Bob Dylan, Winston Churchill, and, er, Wernher von Braun, among others – but still excludes many historical figures. Perhaps this is inevitable; nevertheless, some the inclusions are fairly questionable – for example, cycling superman Lance Armstrong seems a much better fit on the disc 5. The exclusions could spark some serious debate; pick your favorite historical, musical, or cultural period and you will be able to name several people that “should” have been included.
Disc 4 tackles the 100 greatest scandals, itself a tough task given the seemingly endless nefarious plots, dirty deals, and shady shysters that have dotted the political and cultural landscape of the last 100 years. Undoubtedly there are enough scandals here to make a shady hedge fund manager or crooked politician proud, including the Clarence Thomas affair, the fall of Enron, and perhaps the gold standard of political scandals, the Watergate affair. Yet some of the inclusions are marginal at best, and the focus of the disc is weighted a bit too heavily on recent history; I suppose Alec Baldwin’s now infamous rant to his daughter is included for comedic relief. Other entries aren’t true scandals in the narrowest sense of the word and seem out of place here, such as Kurt Cobain’s suicide. Still, the disc is an enlightening, and in some ways perversely entertaining, look back at the parade of cons, crooks, and cheats that has marched through history.
Disc 5 includes audio clips from that most holy of sacred institutions: sports. Much of the attention is on baseball, including its dramatic highs (Willie Mays’ over-the-shoulder catch in 1954 and gimpy Kirk Gibson’s 1988 World Series home run), lows (strikes in both 1981 and 1994), and several events that for some steroidal reason have clearly lost the luster they once had (Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa’s historic 1998 seasons). Taken as a whole, this disc shows that some sports events have had a lasting cultural impact, outside of just being fodder for fantasy geeks. One doesn’t need to be a sports fanatic to enjoy this disc.
100 Greatest is a fascinating audio chronicle and is well worth the time it takes to listen to it. Although there are some shortcomings in this release – some of the inclusions and exclusions are debatable, the booklet is somewhat lacking in details, and the clips on each disc aren’t in any sort of chronological order – it is nevertheless a great snapshot of the key events and figures that have shaped modern history.
Saturday, October 04, 2008
Music Review - Lambchop - OH (ohio)
Lambchop’s mix of musical genres still likely creates headaches for retailers when the shelves are being stocked. Even though the band’s lineup changes frequently (singer and lyricist Kurt Wagner being the obvious exception), the band has nevertheless developed a signature sound: a challenging and unique blend of country, alternative rock, folk, lounge, jazz, soul, and Antarctic steel drumming (well, maybe not this one yet). Coupled with Wagner’s untraditional voice – sometimes whispered or spoken or sung in such a way that it sounds like the words are being choked out from his throat and might not quite make it –it’s tough to think of many bands that incorporate so many disparate styles without sounding like a wretched mess of noise.
Their latest album, OH (ohio), continues this tradition of genre bending and is perhaps the band’s most melodic and understated album since 1996’s How I Quit Smoking. The first few songs float along at a relaxed, breezy, and mellow pace, with the band establishing both the tempo and instrumental quirks that run through much of the record. Opening track “Ohio” unfolds slowly with a subtle piano and guitar melody, with background vocals accompanying Wagner as he sings a variation on an old country conceit that “green doesn’t matter when you’re blue.” Second song “Slipped Dissolved and Loosed” likewise follows this pattern, utilizing another textured blend of guitar, keyboards, and background vocals.
Other songs have no background vocals but move at a similar restrained pace, this time placing the emphasis on Wagner’s voice as it alternately sings with or in front of the instruments. He kinda sorta croons on “Of Raymond,” which also features subdued horns and keyboards that provide additional textures to the song. “A Hold Of You” and closing song “I Believe In You” are also noticeably downbeat and slow; the former song also shows a touch of irony as Wagner sings that he’s “such a bad enunciator.”
Some of the faster songs provide a nice change of pace for the album. The humorously-titled “National Talk Like a Pirate Day” and “Sharing a Gibson with Martin Luther King Jr.” are two such examples. Yet “Popeye” is a separate beast altogether. The album’s most experimental song – and those who like their Lambchop obtuse will likely get giddy over this one – its first few minutes lull the listener in with quiet keyboards and Wagner’s hushed vocals, unexpectedly giving way to a manic swirl of instrumental noise that comes on like a kick upside the head. Maybe it’s the sound of Popeye finally getting his spinach, who the hell knows.
As is to be expected with a Lambchop album, Wagner’s lyrics are vague. Perhaps not as obtuse as Nixon – supposedly a concept album that even included a related bibliography, it nevertheless doesn’t appear to have any solid connection whatsoever to the former president – the songs are nevertheless wide open to interpretation.
Themes of loneliness, aging, and separation are implied throughout the album, such as in “Ohio” and “Popeye.” Of course, the cause of the narrator’s woe is anyone’s guess; Wagner might as well be singing the blues because he’s lost his favorite trucker hat. “I’m Thinking of a Number (between 1 and 2)” covers this ground as well, albeit with heavy dose of bleakness and a pretty twisted sense of humor. If a sense of devotion is implied (“We can hold one another until the other is gone”), it comes with a catch as Wagner sings that “I won’t tell you that love is a variable thing/like the shape of your ass that I noticed when you walked away from me.”
It’s an interesting balancing act; the songs are detailed enough to offer hints of their themes and broader context, but the listener must be careful to avoid bastardizing the songs with the kind of wild interpretations usually reserved for college lit courses. Telling images and phrases are used to create a mood and provide glimpses into the songs themselves – “newspapers in an empty basket,” “the topography of your mind,” “a cocktail which consisted of his gin and her vermouth” – but only a fool would claim to know exactly what these songs are about.
OH (ohio) is a quietly insistent album. Though Wagner’s unique style of singing will make listeners lean in a bit more closely to understand the words, that’s not necessarily a bad thing, even though the music retailers still won’t be able to categorize the band.
Their latest album, OH (ohio), continues this tradition of genre bending and is perhaps the band’s most melodic and understated album since 1996’s How I Quit Smoking. The first few songs float along at a relaxed, breezy, and mellow pace, with the band establishing both the tempo and instrumental quirks that run through much of the record. Opening track “Ohio” unfolds slowly with a subtle piano and guitar melody, with background vocals accompanying Wagner as he sings a variation on an old country conceit that “green doesn’t matter when you’re blue.” Second song “Slipped Dissolved and Loosed” likewise follows this pattern, utilizing another textured blend of guitar, keyboards, and background vocals.
Other songs have no background vocals but move at a similar restrained pace, this time placing the emphasis on Wagner’s voice as it alternately sings with or in front of the instruments. He kinda sorta croons on “Of Raymond,” which also features subdued horns and keyboards that provide additional textures to the song. “A Hold Of You” and closing song “I Believe In You” are also noticeably downbeat and slow; the former song also shows a touch of irony as Wagner sings that he’s “such a bad enunciator.”
Some of the faster songs provide a nice change of pace for the album. The humorously-titled “National Talk Like a Pirate Day” and “Sharing a Gibson with Martin Luther King Jr.” are two such examples. Yet “Popeye” is a separate beast altogether. The album’s most experimental song – and those who like their Lambchop obtuse will likely get giddy over this one – its first few minutes lull the listener in with quiet keyboards and Wagner’s hushed vocals, unexpectedly giving way to a manic swirl of instrumental noise that comes on like a kick upside the head. Maybe it’s the sound of Popeye finally getting his spinach, who the hell knows.
As is to be expected with a Lambchop album, Wagner’s lyrics are vague. Perhaps not as obtuse as Nixon – supposedly a concept album that even included a related bibliography, it nevertheless doesn’t appear to have any solid connection whatsoever to the former president – the songs are nevertheless wide open to interpretation.
Themes of loneliness, aging, and separation are implied throughout the album, such as in “Ohio” and “Popeye.” Of course, the cause of the narrator’s woe is anyone’s guess; Wagner might as well be singing the blues because he’s lost his favorite trucker hat. “I’m Thinking of a Number (between 1 and 2)” covers this ground as well, albeit with heavy dose of bleakness and a pretty twisted sense of humor. If a sense of devotion is implied (“We can hold one another until the other is gone”), it comes with a catch as Wagner sings that “I won’t tell you that love is a variable thing/like the shape of your ass that I noticed when you walked away from me.”
It’s an interesting balancing act; the songs are detailed enough to offer hints of their themes and broader context, but the listener must be careful to avoid bastardizing the songs with the kind of wild interpretations usually reserved for college lit courses. Telling images and phrases are used to create a mood and provide glimpses into the songs themselves – “newspapers in an empty basket,” “the topography of your mind,” “a cocktail which consisted of his gin and her vermouth” – but only a fool would claim to know exactly what these songs are about.
OH (ohio) is a quietly insistent album. Though Wagner’s unique style of singing will make listeners lean in a bit more closely to understand the words, that’s not necessarily a bad thing, even though the music retailers still won’t be able to categorize the band.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Music Review: Rick Danko Band - Live On Breeze Hill
Recorded live on May 23, 1998 and originally released just a couple months before Rick Danko’s death at the age of 56, the reissue of Live On Breeze Hill is a solid and occasionally surprising album that finds the Band bassist performing songs from his time with that fabled, er, band.
Supported by a backing group that includes fellow Bander Garth Hudson, Aaron “Louie” Hurwitz, Lenny Pickett, and Blues Brother alum Tom “Bones” Malone, Danko reinterprets Band standards, sometimes in a way that reveals striking differences from their better-known studio versions.
Though these live cuts don’t surpass those from Danko’s days with The Band, it’s certainly not a maudlin trip into pointless nostalgia or a case of a performer simply reliving his glory days at the audience’s expense. There’s much to like here.
After a studio version of “Sip The Wine,” which is inexplicably included as the first track on this live album and is inessential to anyone except the most ardent/obsessive Band or Danko fan, the concert opens with “Twilight,’ which sets the template for most of the songs that follow. With a nice instrumental intro, an accordion-driven melody, horns, and guitar flourishes that I’m told are required to be described as “liquidy,” it’s far more restrained than its studio counterpart. Though Danko’s vocals sometimes tend to get a little thin and strained, the song includes the trademark harmonies that are immediately reminiscent of his work with The Band. It’s an effective reworking of the song.
Similarly, “Ophelia” moves along with a pace and horn arrangement that differentiates it from its earlier incarnations. It’s far less frantic than the album version from Northern Lights-Southern Cross. “Caledonia Mission” is likewise reworked into a slow and almost mournful song of regret; with subtle horns and minimal piano, it’s far more stripped down than the cut included on Music From Big Pink.
Rarity and highlight “Blaze of Glory” (not the bombastic Jon Bon Jovi song from Young Guns II) successfully straddles the fence somewhere between country and bluegrass, and also contains some of the album’s best harmonies. Though some songs do not deviate much from those that The Band either put on record or performed live – “Crazy Mama” and “Shape I’m In” are essentially pulled straight from The Band playbook – the album is still a worthwhile listen. It’s not a retread of old Band standards.
For some listeners it might be tempting to find a certain foreboding in some of the songs in light of Danko’s death, which occurred less than a year after this show was recorded. Certainly “Shape I’m In” and especially closing track “It Makes No Difference” – with its drawn out harmonies and perfectly sad horns, it is performed almost like a dirge – are rife with potential veiled meanings.
Still other listeners might strongly feel that the songs performed on this album belong to a certain musical time and context, and especially to a specific group of musicians, and therefore shouldn’t be revisited. To some extent the album does sometimes inadvertently raise questions about the nature of a band’s legacy and the wistful nostalgia that inevitably follows, especially during the less engaging cuts included here.
Even though the live versions performed here don’t outshine either their studio or live counterparts from The Band – and to be honest, how could they? – it’s still essential listening for both fans of The Band or those interested in how classic songs are reworked decades after their original release. The overall impression created by this album is of an artist comfortable enough with his musical legacy to both pay homage to it without getting lost in its imposing shadow.
Supported by a backing group that includes fellow Bander Garth Hudson, Aaron “Louie” Hurwitz, Lenny Pickett, and Blues Brother alum Tom “Bones” Malone, Danko reinterprets Band standards, sometimes in a way that reveals striking differences from their better-known studio versions.
Though these live cuts don’t surpass those from Danko’s days with The Band, it’s certainly not a maudlin trip into pointless nostalgia or a case of a performer simply reliving his glory days at the audience’s expense. There’s much to like here.
After a studio version of “Sip The Wine,” which is inexplicably included as the first track on this live album and is inessential to anyone except the most ardent/obsessive Band or Danko fan, the concert opens with “Twilight,’ which sets the template for most of the songs that follow. With a nice instrumental intro, an accordion-driven melody, horns, and guitar flourishes that I’m told are required to be described as “liquidy,” it’s far more restrained than its studio counterpart. Though Danko’s vocals sometimes tend to get a little thin and strained, the song includes the trademark harmonies that are immediately reminiscent of his work with The Band. It’s an effective reworking of the song.
Similarly, “Ophelia” moves along with a pace and horn arrangement that differentiates it from its earlier incarnations. It’s far less frantic than the album version from Northern Lights-Southern Cross. “Caledonia Mission” is likewise reworked into a slow and almost mournful song of regret; with subtle horns and minimal piano, it’s far more stripped down than the cut included on Music From Big Pink.
Rarity and highlight “Blaze of Glory” (not the bombastic Jon Bon Jovi song from Young Guns II) successfully straddles the fence somewhere between country and bluegrass, and also contains some of the album’s best harmonies. Though some songs do not deviate much from those that The Band either put on record or performed live – “Crazy Mama” and “Shape I’m In” are essentially pulled straight from The Band playbook – the album is still a worthwhile listen. It’s not a retread of old Band standards.
For some listeners it might be tempting to find a certain foreboding in some of the songs in light of Danko’s death, which occurred less than a year after this show was recorded. Certainly “Shape I’m In” and especially closing track “It Makes No Difference” – with its drawn out harmonies and perfectly sad horns, it is performed almost like a dirge – are rife with potential veiled meanings.
Still other listeners might strongly feel that the songs performed on this album belong to a certain musical time and context, and especially to a specific group of musicians, and therefore shouldn’t be revisited. To some extent the album does sometimes inadvertently raise questions about the nature of a band’s legacy and the wistful nostalgia that inevitably follows, especially during the less engaging cuts included here.
Even though the live versions performed here don’t outshine either their studio or live counterparts from The Band – and to be honest, how could they? – it’s still essential listening for both fans of The Band or those interested in how classic songs are reworked decades after their original release. The overall impression created by this album is of an artist comfortable enough with his musical legacy to both pay homage to it without getting lost in its imposing shadow.
Satire: Music Fan Ponders Fate of Collection after His Demise
An alleged near-brush with death has left rabid indie fan Franklin Dyer pondering what will happen to his massive music collection once he springs off this mortal coil. Dyer reports that his near-demise was the ironic result of his good intentions to share his musical tastes with his two teenage neighbors, whom he now describes as two “hopeless pop music lackeys and who blast whimsical and vacuous tunes and other toxic waste at top volume.”
According to Dyer, the numerous attempts he’s made to share his impeccable musical preferences have resulted in emphatic rejections from the two neighbors. “It’s one slight after another. I kindly place Doolittle, a mix CD of rare Neutral Milk Hotel live performances, and the book Our Band Could Be Your Life in their mailbox, and they return it to my front porch in flames,” Dyer said dejectedly.
Yet Dyer never imagined that his goals of spreading his musical gospel to those truly uninterested in his opinions would nearly cost him his life. In a series of events that the two teenagers dispute – though judging from their frequent smirking and giggling, they clearly had some hand in the mayhem that ensued – Dyer alleges that the two teens switched out his October Uncut magazine’s CD with a collection of some of today’s most recognizable mainstream artists. “I eagerly popped in the CD to get an idea of which new songs I wanted to illegally download, er, purchase legally so that the composers are compensated for their work. But something was immediately amiss. The horror revved up with two Fergie songs, took a cruel detour into five different Pussycat Dolls songs, and concluded with Paris Hilton’s Stars Are Blind EP. Within seconds I began to have labored breathing, my vision got blurry, my throat closed up, my eyes started to burn, a purple rash developed on my arms, and I began to babble incoherently in Farsi before blacking out. I eventually woke up to find the Repeat function enabled and the song ‘Don’t Cha’ permanently seared into my brain.”
The horrific incident has left Dyer pondering what will happen to his enormous, and slightly disturbing, music collection once his life “starts to be measured in dirt years,” as he cynically puts it. “I’ve worked too hard through three marriages and several careers with varying degrees of success to just kick off without ensuring this collection finds a worthy home,” Dyer said with conviction. The collection, which he refuses to sell because of its priceless nature, includes both official and unofficial releases, and is a veritable history of music that the vast majority of Americans have never heard of.
For this reason, Dyer feels that its eternal preservation is essential, though he admits his attempts to find a suitable heir have thus far been unsuccessful. According to Dyer, “emails to my old trading partners have returned harsh and somewhat cavalier questions about when exactly I’m planning to die and what the shipping charges might be. My ex-wives declared they’d help me ‘take that junk out with the garbage next Tuesday, and personally pick clean the bones.’ My only daughter thinks Bruce Springsteen is the guy who runs the local Jewish deli, so obviously she’s not a good choice.”
Institutions have likewise shown little interest in the collection. Though he’s somewhat evasive when discussing the matter, he acknowledges that repeated inquiries to Federal preservation agencies have only resulted in his name being added to “various watch lists…but it’s only the government, so why worry?” Dyer likewise received a chilly reception from his local library, where the head librarian “only asked if I had any Perry Como records before making me pay up for an overdue copy of White Noise, which I checked out in 1985.”
Regardless, Dyer vows that his collection will find a loving home before he goes to that great backstage lounge in the sky. “Like innovation or creativity in current pop music, my time on this earth is limited. This collection traces the most obtuse and marginal strands of music history that most people aren’t even remotely aware of. Who wouldn’t be interested in this?”
According to Dyer, the numerous attempts he’s made to share his impeccable musical preferences have resulted in emphatic rejections from the two neighbors. “It’s one slight after another. I kindly place Doolittle, a mix CD of rare Neutral Milk Hotel live performances, and the book Our Band Could Be Your Life in their mailbox, and they return it to my front porch in flames,” Dyer said dejectedly.
Yet Dyer never imagined that his goals of spreading his musical gospel to those truly uninterested in his opinions would nearly cost him his life. In a series of events that the two teenagers dispute – though judging from their frequent smirking and giggling, they clearly had some hand in the mayhem that ensued – Dyer alleges that the two teens switched out his October Uncut magazine’s CD with a collection of some of today’s most recognizable mainstream artists. “I eagerly popped in the CD to get an idea of which new songs I wanted to illegally download, er, purchase legally so that the composers are compensated for their work. But something was immediately amiss. The horror revved up with two Fergie songs, took a cruel detour into five different Pussycat Dolls songs, and concluded with Paris Hilton’s Stars Are Blind EP. Within seconds I began to have labored breathing, my vision got blurry, my throat closed up, my eyes started to burn, a purple rash developed on my arms, and I began to babble incoherently in Farsi before blacking out. I eventually woke up to find the Repeat function enabled and the song ‘Don’t Cha’ permanently seared into my brain.”
The horrific incident has left Dyer pondering what will happen to his enormous, and slightly disturbing, music collection once his life “starts to be measured in dirt years,” as he cynically puts it. “I’ve worked too hard through three marriages and several careers with varying degrees of success to just kick off without ensuring this collection finds a worthy home,” Dyer said with conviction. The collection, which he refuses to sell because of its priceless nature, includes both official and unofficial releases, and is a veritable history of music that the vast majority of Americans have never heard of.
For this reason, Dyer feels that its eternal preservation is essential, though he admits his attempts to find a suitable heir have thus far been unsuccessful. According to Dyer, “emails to my old trading partners have returned harsh and somewhat cavalier questions about when exactly I’m planning to die and what the shipping charges might be. My ex-wives declared they’d help me ‘take that junk out with the garbage next Tuesday, and personally pick clean the bones.’ My only daughter thinks Bruce Springsteen is the guy who runs the local Jewish deli, so obviously she’s not a good choice.”
Institutions have likewise shown little interest in the collection. Though he’s somewhat evasive when discussing the matter, he acknowledges that repeated inquiries to Federal preservation agencies have only resulted in his name being added to “various watch lists…but it’s only the government, so why worry?” Dyer likewise received a chilly reception from his local library, where the head librarian “only asked if I had any Perry Como records before making me pay up for an overdue copy of White Noise, which I checked out in 1985.”
Regardless, Dyer vows that his collection will find a loving home before he goes to that great backstage lounge in the sky. “Like innovation or creativity in current pop music, my time on this earth is limited. This collection traces the most obtuse and marginal strands of music history that most people aren’t even remotely aware of. Who wouldn’t be interested in this?”
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Music Review: Calexico - Carried to Dust
Reminiscent of both Feast of Wire and Garden Ruin, Calexico’s latest release is an atmospheric and evocative album that finds the band once again playing to its strengths. Entitled Carried to Dust, it’s a textured and layered album that reveals new melodies and instrumental tricks with each listen.
By now anyone familiar with the band’s jazz/country/rock/folk/Latin mixture won’t mistake a Calexico song for that of any other band. Though the image of Calexico as a collection of wandering troubadours invoking the music and culture of both the American Southwest and Mexico is by now largely inaccurate, several of the songs fit neatly into the Calexico playbook. Opening track “Victor Jara’s Hands” invokes the Chilean poet/musician/activist who was killed in 1973 and features the usual mariachi horns that somehow work on a Calexico album, instead of sending the listener running for cover like he would at certain Mexican restaurants. “Inspiración” similarly goes gonzo with horns; sung in Spanish, the song still manages to create a definite tone and feel even if the listener’s knowledge of the language is limited to Taco Bell commercials and those very un-PC Speedy Gonzalez cartoons. Instrumentals like “El Gatillo (Trigger Revisited)” and “Falling from Sleeves” nicely recall similar instrumental pieces from the band’s previous albums.
Other songs are more reserved and wouldn’t sound out of place on Garden Ruin. “Bend to the Road” is restrained and tense, with occasional jazz flourishes and near-whispered vocals, as it implies some sort of impending disaster. “Slowness” features Pieta Brown and is essentially a country duet that floats along with one of the album’s most memorable and stripped-down melodies. Closer “Contention City” moves at its own languid pace and trails off into an instrumental ending with steel guitar, piano, and that most popular of modern instruments, the glockenspiel.
With the album’s emphasis on sonic textures created by the large variety of instruments used and musical genres explored – like many Calexico albums, mood and tone are often the most immediately noticeable aspects – the vocals are somewhat subdued. Yet this isn’t to say that they’re incidental; instead, recurring themes and images surface in many of the songs. Perhaps most striking are the various references to some type of disastrous event, often hand-in-hand with an isolated person and with a focus on nature’s destructive power. “Man Made Lake” finds its narrator roaming among the wreckage “like…a ghost searching for its grave,” walking through “streets with no stir of life…and all the houses on the streets wholly submerged.” Other songs exist inside a destroyed landscape; in “The News About William,” the central character is left in a barren landscape after a “storm that washed the roads out.”
Similarly, the character in “Fractured Air (Tornado Watch)” finds himself “clinging to the rooftop/losing track of days;” the listener can only assume this poor soul’s not hanging out on the roof for shits and grins. Nature’s indifference to humans runs through “Red Blooms,” a song ostensibly about Russian “snowdrops,” a term used to describe drunks who fall down and die in the snow and aren’t discovered until after the snow melts. It’s a disturbing image – “strangers plant themselves down in the cold hard ground/later when the harvest thaws, snowdrops will be in bloom” – with a particularly grim sense of humor about the cycles of life.
Though perhaps not a radical stylistic departure from the band’s previous albums, Carried to Dust is a richly layered album, with recurring themes and melodies that reveal themselves with each subsequent listening.
By now anyone familiar with the band’s jazz/country/rock/folk/Latin mixture won’t mistake a Calexico song for that of any other band. Though the image of Calexico as a collection of wandering troubadours invoking the music and culture of both the American Southwest and Mexico is by now largely inaccurate, several of the songs fit neatly into the Calexico playbook. Opening track “Victor Jara’s Hands” invokes the Chilean poet/musician/activist who was killed in 1973 and features the usual mariachi horns that somehow work on a Calexico album, instead of sending the listener running for cover like he would at certain Mexican restaurants. “Inspiración” similarly goes gonzo with horns; sung in Spanish, the song still manages to create a definite tone and feel even if the listener’s knowledge of the language is limited to Taco Bell commercials and those very un-PC Speedy Gonzalez cartoons. Instrumentals like “El Gatillo (Trigger Revisited)” and “Falling from Sleeves” nicely recall similar instrumental pieces from the band’s previous albums.
Other songs are more reserved and wouldn’t sound out of place on Garden Ruin. “Bend to the Road” is restrained and tense, with occasional jazz flourishes and near-whispered vocals, as it implies some sort of impending disaster. “Slowness” features Pieta Brown and is essentially a country duet that floats along with one of the album’s most memorable and stripped-down melodies. Closer “Contention City” moves at its own languid pace and trails off into an instrumental ending with steel guitar, piano, and that most popular of modern instruments, the glockenspiel.
With the album’s emphasis on sonic textures created by the large variety of instruments used and musical genres explored – like many Calexico albums, mood and tone are often the most immediately noticeable aspects – the vocals are somewhat subdued. Yet this isn’t to say that they’re incidental; instead, recurring themes and images surface in many of the songs. Perhaps most striking are the various references to some type of disastrous event, often hand-in-hand with an isolated person and with a focus on nature’s destructive power. “Man Made Lake” finds its narrator roaming among the wreckage “like…a ghost searching for its grave,” walking through “streets with no stir of life…and all the houses on the streets wholly submerged.” Other songs exist inside a destroyed landscape; in “The News About William,” the central character is left in a barren landscape after a “storm that washed the roads out.”
Similarly, the character in “Fractured Air (Tornado Watch)” finds himself “clinging to the rooftop/losing track of days;” the listener can only assume this poor soul’s not hanging out on the roof for shits and grins. Nature’s indifference to humans runs through “Red Blooms,” a song ostensibly about Russian “snowdrops,” a term used to describe drunks who fall down and die in the snow and aren’t discovered until after the snow melts. It’s a disturbing image – “strangers plant themselves down in the cold hard ground/later when the harvest thaws, snowdrops will be in bloom” – with a particularly grim sense of humor about the cycles of life.
Though perhaps not a radical stylistic departure from the band’s previous albums, Carried to Dust is a richly layered album, with recurring themes and melodies that reveal themselves with each subsequent listening.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Satire: Area Music Fan Suffering from Hearing Loss
Longtime concertgoer Howard Deefman dejectedly admitted today that he’s distraught after learning from his physician that he’s starting to suffer from irreversible hearing loss. Deefman, a 65-year old Venice Beach street vendor and self-admitted “dinosaur rock aficionado,” estimates that he’s seen thousands of concerts over the last nearly 50 years, both in his hometown of Los Angeles and throughout the United States.Deefman readily admits the specific details of these show have become seriously scrambled in his addled brain. “I can vaguely remember sitting through marathon Led Zeppelin drum solos, Who concerts where the volume was so loud I couldn’t complete a covert drug transaction in the bathroom, and even a recent Springsteen concert that I thoroughly enjoyed from row 278.” Yet the street vendor is still in shock over his impending auditory demise. “The memory loss I can deal with; losing the memory of those Rick Wakeman ice concerts seems like a fair tradeoff. But I gotta be able to hear at these shows.”
Perhaps what’s most surprising is the alleged cause of Deefman’s hearing loss. Dr. Heinrich Vears, Deefman’s long-time doctor who he describes as a “good croaker who knows the score and how to write a solid prescription,” attributes his patient’s deterioration to a very unique cause. “Based on a series of extensive and cutting-edge tests, billed of course at a discounted rate since Mr. Deefman’s insurance lapsed sometime around the heyday of Prog Rock, I’ve concluded that his hearing loss is attributable to a lifetime of concerts in which he found himself sitting directly in front of a decibel-shattering person who would constantly shout at the band, drunkenly requesting songs that the band would never play anyway, and loudly harass those around him by calling everyone ‘bro’ or ‘dude,’ directly into Mr. Deefman’s ears.”Deefman readily agrees that the doctor’s theory rings true. Deep within the recesses of the remaining brain cells that are doing more than retaining bong resin, the lifetime music fan can still recall countless cases where his concert experience was ruined by a loud neighbor. “Dylan gospel tour 1980, some meathead spent the whole night screaming for ‘Tiny Montgomery’ and booing directly into my ear every time Dylan played a religious song. In 1997 I spent a whole month following Tom Petty around, and each night girls screamed hysterically every time he played ‘American Girl.’ At this year’s Tom Waits show in Phoenix, a fan in a bowler hat directly behind me conducted a screaming soliloquy about having Mr. Waits’ children before he was escorted out.”
Deefman gloomily concluded: “I used to think the worst thing about these concert screamers was that they’d startle me so much that I’d spill my Pabst all over some college preppie. But now I guess my hearing loss wasn’t actually caused by that particularly shrill Joan Baez show from 1963.”Though Deefman isn’t thrilled that he needs to begin wearing a hearing aid, he’s equally concerned that other music fans will suffer the same fate. “The younger generation’s ears are going to hell, without a doubt,” he asserted. “The stuff that passes for music nowadays is a far cry from the dulcet melodies of my 1960s prime. The noise kids listen to today proves to me that their ears are already crapping out. It’s certainly not music to my ears.”
Perhaps what’s most surprising is the alleged cause of Deefman’s hearing loss. Dr. Heinrich Vears, Deefman’s long-time doctor who he describes as a “good croaker who knows the score and how to write a solid prescription,” attributes his patient’s deterioration to a very unique cause. “Based on a series of extensive and cutting-edge tests, billed of course at a discounted rate since Mr. Deefman’s insurance lapsed sometime around the heyday of Prog Rock, I’ve concluded that his hearing loss is attributable to a lifetime of concerts in which he found himself sitting directly in front of a decibel-shattering person who would constantly shout at the band, drunkenly requesting songs that the band would never play anyway, and loudly harass those around him by calling everyone ‘bro’ or ‘dude,’ directly into Mr. Deefman’s ears.”Deefman readily agrees that the doctor’s theory rings true. Deep within the recesses of the remaining brain cells that are doing more than retaining bong resin, the lifetime music fan can still recall countless cases where his concert experience was ruined by a loud neighbor. “Dylan gospel tour 1980, some meathead spent the whole night screaming for ‘Tiny Montgomery’ and booing directly into my ear every time Dylan played a religious song. In 1997 I spent a whole month following Tom Petty around, and each night girls screamed hysterically every time he played ‘American Girl.’ At this year’s Tom Waits show in Phoenix, a fan in a bowler hat directly behind me conducted a screaming soliloquy about having Mr. Waits’ children before he was escorted out.”
Deefman gloomily concluded: “I used to think the worst thing about these concert screamers was that they’d startle me so much that I’d spill my Pabst all over some college preppie. But now I guess my hearing loss wasn’t actually caused by that particularly shrill Joan Baez show from 1963.”Though Deefman isn’t thrilled that he needs to begin wearing a hearing aid, he’s equally concerned that other music fans will suffer the same fate. “The younger generation’s ears are going to hell, without a doubt,” he asserted. “The stuff that passes for music nowadays is a far cry from the dulcet melodies of my 1960s prime. The noise kids listen to today proves to me that their ears are already crapping out. It’s certainly not music to my ears.”
Music Review - Okkervil River - The Stand Ins
Essentially a sequel to 2007’s The Stage Names, which was briefly considered for release as a two-disc album before being scaled down to a single album, Okkervil River's The Stand Ins uses central images of musicians and life on the stage to again address many of the themes that first surfaced on the band's 2007 album. Such a back story might also perhaps keep some of the more fickle indie music fans from initially dismissing Okkervil River’s latest effort as a collection of also-rans or throwaways that weren’t good enough for inclusion on The Stage Names.
Against a backdrop of songs that ranged from straight-on rockers to hushed ballads, singer and lyricist Will Sheff explored themes of death, celebrity, identity, and life’s little tragedies and disappointments throughout The Stage Names, often with a dark and black sense of humor. Though perhaps not quite as bleak as 2005’s Black Sheep Boy – that one could turn even the most emotionless hardass into a weeping, quivering emo ball of misery – it was still a decidedly emotional, and engaging, album. To be sure, The Stand Ins does in many ways sound like a coherent musical and thematic extension of its predecessor. It still predominantly deals in the dark stuff; though not exactly brooding – “On Tour With Zykos” and “Blue Tulip” being the obvious exceptions – it’s heavy on gloom and short on even the faintest glimmer of hope. “Singer Songwriter” addresses the nature of fame with a harsh dismissal of its protagonist’s legacy: “the kids once grown up are going to walk away.” “Pop Lie” likewise treads this territory with similar results; in this case the song drips with contempt as Sheff cynically implicates musicians and fans as frauds in the same game of (self) deception.
Tragic figures and their equally tragic stories are invoked in other songs. “Starry Stairs,” previously available on the bonus track edition of The Stage Names (at least it sounds the same to these ruined ears) , likely references doomed porno actress Shannon Wilsey (check the previous album’s “Savannah Smiles,” perhaps one of the most depressing songs ever recorded, and then mope and sob appropriately). Coupled with a nice horn arrangement, the song finds its character uneasily on display (“all these guys/all these curious sets of eyes/safe behind the TV screen”) and filled with regret ("what a hot half life I half lived"). Unlike The Stage Names, there isn’t much humor this time around. The possible dry humor of “Pop Lie,” which describes a supposed intellectual musician who did his “thesis on the gospel of Thomas,” is shown to be a mirage, supplanted by a mocking tone in which Sheff tells the musician that his “world is gonna change nothing.” “On Tour With Zykos” is drenched in piano and describes a relationship on the skids, with some harsh language that probably wouldn’t work well as a wedding vow: “take your shit/take your clothes and get out of my home.” All that’s left for the narrator is “another day tossed and done.” At times this cynicism threatens to overwhelm the listener; it’s not quite Berlin but it’s not too far off.
The album reveals some stylistic shifts for the band. Three brief orchestral instrumentals are scattered throughout, though these sometimes interrupt the album’s overall flow. The music breaks from previous Okkervil River albums in other ways. “Singer Songwriter” incorporates elements of country music, “Starry Stairs” relies heavily on a horn arrangement, “Pop Lie” is evocative of 1980s new wave, “Calling and Not Calling My Ex” has a carnival feel to it, and “Lost Coastlines” has enough tempo and instrumental changes to make the listener dizzy (in a good way). “Pull down the shades/let’s kill the morning,” Sheff sings in closing track “Bruce Wayne Campbell Interviewed on the Roof of the Chelsea Hotel, 1979.” Though perhaps not as immediate as final track “John Allyn Smith Sails” from The Stage Names, it’s a resigned and fitting conclusion to Okkervil River’s latest album. Emotional without being weepy, literate without being pretentious, The Stand Ins is another excellent release from a highly creative and evolving band.
Against a backdrop of songs that ranged from straight-on rockers to hushed ballads, singer and lyricist Will Sheff explored themes of death, celebrity, identity, and life’s little tragedies and disappointments throughout The Stage Names, often with a dark and black sense of humor. Though perhaps not quite as bleak as 2005’s Black Sheep Boy – that one could turn even the most emotionless hardass into a weeping, quivering emo ball of misery – it was still a decidedly emotional, and engaging, album. To be sure, The Stand Ins does in many ways sound like a coherent musical and thematic extension of its predecessor. It still predominantly deals in the dark stuff; though not exactly brooding – “On Tour With Zykos” and “Blue Tulip” being the obvious exceptions – it’s heavy on gloom and short on even the faintest glimmer of hope. “Singer Songwriter” addresses the nature of fame with a harsh dismissal of its protagonist’s legacy: “the kids once grown up are going to walk away.” “Pop Lie” likewise treads this territory with similar results; in this case the song drips with contempt as Sheff cynically implicates musicians and fans as frauds in the same game of (self) deception.
Tragic figures and their equally tragic stories are invoked in other songs. “Starry Stairs,” previously available on the bonus track edition of The Stage Names (at least it sounds the same to these ruined ears) , likely references doomed porno actress Shannon Wilsey (check the previous album’s “Savannah Smiles,” perhaps one of the most depressing songs ever recorded, and then mope and sob appropriately). Coupled with a nice horn arrangement, the song finds its character uneasily on display (“all these guys/all these curious sets of eyes/safe behind the TV screen”) and filled with regret ("what a hot half life I half lived"). Unlike The Stage Names, there isn’t much humor this time around. The possible dry humor of “Pop Lie,” which describes a supposed intellectual musician who did his “thesis on the gospel of Thomas,” is shown to be a mirage, supplanted by a mocking tone in which Sheff tells the musician that his “world is gonna change nothing.” “On Tour With Zykos” is drenched in piano and describes a relationship on the skids, with some harsh language that probably wouldn’t work well as a wedding vow: “take your shit/take your clothes and get out of my home.” All that’s left for the narrator is “another day tossed and done.” At times this cynicism threatens to overwhelm the listener; it’s not quite Berlin but it’s not too far off.
The album reveals some stylistic shifts for the band. Three brief orchestral instrumentals are scattered throughout, though these sometimes interrupt the album’s overall flow. The music breaks from previous Okkervil River albums in other ways. “Singer Songwriter” incorporates elements of country music, “Starry Stairs” relies heavily on a horn arrangement, “Pop Lie” is evocative of 1980s new wave, “Calling and Not Calling My Ex” has a carnival feel to it, and “Lost Coastlines” has enough tempo and instrumental changes to make the listener dizzy (in a good way). “Pull down the shades/let’s kill the morning,” Sheff sings in closing track “Bruce Wayne Campbell Interviewed on the Roof of the Chelsea Hotel, 1979.” Though perhaps not as immediate as final track “John Allyn Smith Sails” from The Stage Names, it’s a resigned and fitting conclusion to Okkervil River’s latest album. Emotional without being weepy, literate without being pretentious, The Stand Ins is another excellent release from a highly creative and evolving band.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Music Review - J. Matthew Gerken, Christian Kiefer, and Jefferson Pitcher - Of Great and Mortal Men: 43 Songs for 43 U.S. Presidencies
It’s about damn time someone wrote a song with William Henry Harrison as its main subject. Authored by musicians J. Matthew Gerken, Christian Kiefer, and Jefferson Pitcher, Of Great and Mortal Men: 43 Songs for 43 U.S. Presidencies is an ambitious and imaginative effort that explores the mythology and nature of the American presidency and the men who have inhabited that office. Ranging from songs of genuine sympathy to those of scathing criticism and satire, it’s worthwhile listening for both music fans and those die-hard Millard Fillmore lovers still out there.
Originally conceived as part of February Album Writing Month in 2006, the demos created for that project were eventually pounded and shaped into this current three-CD set, with additional songs added. Somewhat reminiscent of Sufjan Stevens’ various “States” albums, it’s an overall success in the dangerous landmine that is the concept album. Artistic license is taken but within a defined historical context and with supporting historical details. And with contributions from artists like Califone, Bill Callahan, Marla Hansen, Alan Sparhawk, Rosie Thomas, and others, it boasts more collaborations than a Justin Timberlake record.
A variety of character portraits emerges throughout the album. With an emphasis placed on the cruelties and acts of violence committed under specific administrations in the name of progress or destiny, the musicians offer some harsh criticisms for several presidents. In “Benevolence,” Andrew Jackson is portrayed as an unapologetic killer, with God and destiny used to justify his actions against the Cherokee Nation: “I told them we would come and I did it and that left half less animals to feed. You have to understand: We were moving on and destiny had ways to rule the land from one sea to the next. And I did it and they stood in the way of God’s whole plan.” Zachary Taylor is likewise depicted in “Rough and Ready” in similar terms: “Mexico, here I come to tear the line down! Here I come to steal all of your land! With six thousand men I’ll take your twenty down and start this war.”William Henry Harrison receives similar treatment; behind a sparse piano, the president’s premature death is viewed as revenge for his treatment of Native Americans: “The pneumonia will claim his lungs tonight…He will lay there just as dead as smelt. And the Whigs will wither up and die forevermore; well deserved.”
Other presidents are depicted as, well, egotistical bastards and as silver-tongued as a swampland salesman. Backed by a colonial marching tune, Washington Dreams of the Hippopotamus paints a decidedly unflattering account of the first president. Part swindler and part schemer, Kiefer’s Washington reeks of cynicism and political expediency: ‘“It is devoutly wished on my part that these precedents may be fixed on principles,”’ I said and those dumb asses believed me. With their powdered wigs and piggy eyes: Believed me.” Likewise, Chester Arthur, finding himself president after James Garfield’s assassination in 1881, is imagined in “The Epitome of Dignity” as an NFL-quality trash-talker who really doesn’t seem too bothered by his predecessor’s sudden death: “Oh hell yes. Now I am the president, but they’re on me like flies on shit… Oh Abraham, you got nothing on me. Just take a look at Chester! Aren’t I so beautiful?”
Other presidents are mocked as hapless and unfit for the job. Herbert Hoover, surveying the wreckage caused by the Great Depression, is derided as a clueless “dummy” unfit to counter the effects of the Depression. James Buchanan is similarly helpless, unable to stem the tide that would lead to the Civil War. In “God Will Strike You Down,” all he can muster is a plaintive admission of “what a mess we’re in…A war it will come to bury lonely me.”
Yet there are some genuine moments of compassion that offset the cynicism that runs through many of the songs. As successor to William Henry Harrison after his death by pneumonia in 1841, John Tyler is viewed with pity in “Hindsight Falls on Deaf Ears.” Sung by Bill Callahan and featuring minimal violin and guitar, Tyler admits that “in my darkest thoughts I never really wanted any of this.” Several others beg for a different life as they look back on their time as president. Jefferson Pitcher’s Harry Truman wishes for a simpler life as a clothing salesman after the bombing of Hiroshima in 1945. In the mandolin song “Suits and Fine Trousers vs. Hiroshima,” Truman is a mess of conflicting emotions: “And where will they bury all of the bodies? I feel so sick inside. But every night I will pray that I have done the right thing. Oh God, forgive me. And ruin will rain down. Ruin will rain down on them…Will I rot in hell? Oh what was I thinking?” Lyndon Johnson confronts the legacy of his presidency – war in Vietnam, riots in Detroit, and the Great Society ultimately a failure – and alternately recalls his badass younger days (“1957. I was on top of the world. I’d corner them in the cloakroom and watch them shaking in their shoes”) and begs his wife to take him home to his ranch.
The presidents that receive complete praise are few and far between. Richard Nixon is held up as a paragon of virtue and morality, and as a man helpless to halt the corruption of those around him, in “2 Under Par Off the Coast of Africa” (just kidding – Nixon finds himself shamed and disgraced in San Clemente, imagining a round of golf with Napoleon). Perhaps not surprisingly, FDR and John F. Kennedy receive the most praise. Between some provocative swipes at today’s GOP and conservatives, Gerken describes FDR as motivated by “improving the world for people and earth. Now, we all know that government can be a force of good.” Kennedy is viewed as an honorable and visionary man (“the spirit and soul of all that is good fell for this man”) whose death altered the future of American politics (“I imagine two whole terms and then Bobby for two more. There would never have been a Nixon nor Ford…”).
For the most part, the music compliments the lyrics very well. Acoustic and electric guitars, saxophones, pianos, banjos, violins, and violas are used often, and combine to set the appropriate tone for each song. “It Was Foreshadowed Here: The Beginning of The End” uses a slow acoustic guitar accented with piano as Gerken dismisses the first Bush administration with a terse “history will be very cruel.” The melodies are also nice; the U.S. Grant song “Helicopters above Oakland” is perhaps the finest of the set.
There are some occasional flaws in the album’s execution. Sometimes the lyrics don’t quite fit into the space of the music and thus subvert the melody to get a point across; songs about Teddy Roosevelt, Abraham Lincoln, and Martin Van Buren (“capitalism explored political liens and the inherent internal contradictions therein”) most noticeably suffer from this. Though most of the vocals are warm and upfront, occasional distorted or distant vocal arrangements detract from the album’s mostly-consistent style. The John Quincy Adams song “Death In the Speaker’s Room” is one such case.
The album’s packaging is also worth mentioning. A lengthy hardcover book includes each song’s lyrics as well as the writers and performers for each song. Even better, the book contains images of the presidents from 43 different artists; many of these compliment the themes of the various songs. Nicole Roberts’ artwork for Bush Junior consists of an outline of the state of Texas in the colors of the American flag, along with a crown, church, spouting oil, and rows of gravestones. Trystan Bates’ humorous drawing of Jimmy Carter shows the former president as an alien being beamed up to home planet, in keeping with the song’s lyrics (“Oh Jimmy boy. Soon your people will come to take you home. They will crash through the atmosphere tonight and we earth people will sadly wave goodbye”). For his piece on Herbert Hoover, Bart Woodstrup forgoes a portrait of the Depression-era president in favor of a bleak painting that consists of a barren landscape, a single brown shack, and rows and rows of faceless (and presumably unemployed) men beneath a giant, empty spoon.
As an artistic interpretation of both the highs and lows of the American presidency, as well as the nature of the presidency itself and the mythology of the men who held that office, Of Great and Mortal Men is a fascinating and thought-provoking concept album. Although the album should not be interpreted as a purely objective history – plenty of artistic licenses are taken, which could twist a few wigs (no pun intended) – it’s still an excellent examination of the presidency and, perhaps more, how presidents have shaped both America’s history and the lives of her citizens.
Originally conceived as part of February Album Writing Month in 2006, the demos created for that project were eventually pounded and shaped into this current three-CD set, with additional songs added. Somewhat reminiscent of Sufjan Stevens’ various “States” albums, it’s an overall success in the dangerous landmine that is the concept album. Artistic license is taken but within a defined historical context and with supporting historical details. And with contributions from artists like Califone, Bill Callahan, Marla Hansen, Alan Sparhawk, Rosie Thomas, and others, it boasts more collaborations than a Justin Timberlake record.
A variety of character portraits emerges throughout the album. With an emphasis placed on the cruelties and acts of violence committed under specific administrations in the name of progress or destiny, the musicians offer some harsh criticisms for several presidents. In “Benevolence,” Andrew Jackson is portrayed as an unapologetic killer, with God and destiny used to justify his actions against the Cherokee Nation: “I told them we would come and I did it and that left half less animals to feed. You have to understand: We were moving on and destiny had ways to rule the land from one sea to the next. And I did it and they stood in the way of God’s whole plan.” Zachary Taylor is likewise depicted in “Rough and Ready” in similar terms: “Mexico, here I come to tear the line down! Here I come to steal all of your land! With six thousand men I’ll take your twenty down and start this war.”William Henry Harrison receives similar treatment; behind a sparse piano, the president’s premature death is viewed as revenge for his treatment of Native Americans: “The pneumonia will claim his lungs tonight…He will lay there just as dead as smelt. And the Whigs will wither up and die forevermore; well deserved.”
Other presidents are depicted as, well, egotistical bastards and as silver-tongued as a swampland salesman. Backed by a colonial marching tune, Washington Dreams of the Hippopotamus paints a decidedly unflattering account of the first president. Part swindler and part schemer, Kiefer’s Washington reeks of cynicism and political expediency: ‘“It is devoutly wished on my part that these precedents may be fixed on principles,”’ I said and those dumb asses believed me. With their powdered wigs and piggy eyes: Believed me.” Likewise, Chester Arthur, finding himself president after James Garfield’s assassination in 1881, is imagined in “The Epitome of Dignity” as an NFL-quality trash-talker who really doesn’t seem too bothered by his predecessor’s sudden death: “Oh hell yes. Now I am the president, but they’re on me like flies on shit… Oh Abraham, you got nothing on me. Just take a look at Chester! Aren’t I so beautiful?”
Other presidents are mocked as hapless and unfit for the job. Herbert Hoover, surveying the wreckage caused by the Great Depression, is derided as a clueless “dummy” unfit to counter the effects of the Depression. James Buchanan is similarly helpless, unable to stem the tide that would lead to the Civil War. In “God Will Strike You Down,” all he can muster is a plaintive admission of “what a mess we’re in…A war it will come to bury lonely me.”
Yet there are some genuine moments of compassion that offset the cynicism that runs through many of the songs. As successor to William Henry Harrison after his death by pneumonia in 1841, John Tyler is viewed with pity in “Hindsight Falls on Deaf Ears.” Sung by Bill Callahan and featuring minimal violin and guitar, Tyler admits that “in my darkest thoughts I never really wanted any of this.” Several others beg for a different life as they look back on their time as president. Jefferson Pitcher’s Harry Truman wishes for a simpler life as a clothing salesman after the bombing of Hiroshima in 1945. In the mandolin song “Suits and Fine Trousers vs. Hiroshima,” Truman is a mess of conflicting emotions: “And where will they bury all of the bodies? I feel so sick inside. But every night I will pray that I have done the right thing. Oh God, forgive me. And ruin will rain down. Ruin will rain down on them…Will I rot in hell? Oh what was I thinking?” Lyndon Johnson confronts the legacy of his presidency – war in Vietnam, riots in Detroit, and the Great Society ultimately a failure – and alternately recalls his badass younger days (“1957. I was on top of the world. I’d corner them in the cloakroom and watch them shaking in their shoes”) and begs his wife to take him home to his ranch.
The presidents that receive complete praise are few and far between. Richard Nixon is held up as a paragon of virtue and morality, and as a man helpless to halt the corruption of those around him, in “2 Under Par Off the Coast of Africa” (just kidding – Nixon finds himself shamed and disgraced in San Clemente, imagining a round of golf with Napoleon). Perhaps not surprisingly, FDR and John F. Kennedy receive the most praise. Between some provocative swipes at today’s GOP and conservatives, Gerken describes FDR as motivated by “improving the world for people and earth. Now, we all know that government can be a force of good.” Kennedy is viewed as an honorable and visionary man (“the spirit and soul of all that is good fell for this man”) whose death altered the future of American politics (“I imagine two whole terms and then Bobby for two more. There would never have been a Nixon nor Ford…”).
For the most part, the music compliments the lyrics very well. Acoustic and electric guitars, saxophones, pianos, banjos, violins, and violas are used often, and combine to set the appropriate tone for each song. “It Was Foreshadowed Here: The Beginning of The End” uses a slow acoustic guitar accented with piano as Gerken dismisses the first Bush administration with a terse “history will be very cruel.” The melodies are also nice; the U.S. Grant song “Helicopters above Oakland” is perhaps the finest of the set.
There are some occasional flaws in the album’s execution. Sometimes the lyrics don’t quite fit into the space of the music and thus subvert the melody to get a point across; songs about Teddy Roosevelt, Abraham Lincoln, and Martin Van Buren (“capitalism explored political liens and the inherent internal contradictions therein”) most noticeably suffer from this. Though most of the vocals are warm and upfront, occasional distorted or distant vocal arrangements detract from the album’s mostly-consistent style. The John Quincy Adams song “Death In the Speaker’s Room” is one such case.
The album’s packaging is also worth mentioning. A lengthy hardcover book includes each song’s lyrics as well as the writers and performers for each song. Even better, the book contains images of the presidents from 43 different artists; many of these compliment the themes of the various songs. Nicole Roberts’ artwork for Bush Junior consists of an outline of the state of Texas in the colors of the American flag, along with a crown, church, spouting oil, and rows of gravestones. Trystan Bates’ humorous drawing of Jimmy Carter shows the former president as an alien being beamed up to home planet, in keeping with the song’s lyrics (“Oh Jimmy boy. Soon your people will come to take you home. They will crash through the atmosphere tonight and we earth people will sadly wave goodbye”). For his piece on Herbert Hoover, Bart Woodstrup forgoes a portrait of the Depression-era president in favor of a bleak painting that consists of a barren landscape, a single brown shack, and rows and rows of faceless (and presumably unemployed) men beneath a giant, empty spoon.
As an artistic interpretation of both the highs and lows of the American presidency, as well as the nature of the presidency itself and the mythology of the men who held that office, Of Great and Mortal Men is a fascinating and thought-provoking concept album. Although the album should not be interpreted as a purely objective history – plenty of artistic licenses are taken, which could twist a few wigs (no pun intended) – it’s still an excellent examination of the presidency and, perhaps more, how presidents have shaped both America’s history and the lives of her citizens.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Comedy Review - Mitch Hedberg - Do You Believe In Gosh?
Recorded about two months prior to his death in March of 2005, Do You Believe In Gosh? is comedian Mitch Hedberg’s first posthumous release. Only 37 years old at the time of his death in a New Jersey hotel room, it’s still likely a bitter and depressing pill for his fans to swallow.
Hedberg’s on-stage persona was unique: wearing sunglasses and often times performing with his eyes closed or with his hair in front of his face (a way to manage stage fright was the usual explanation), he delivered his jokes in an odd slacker cadence that could make the most banal aspects of life seem hilarious. Topics ranging from how Do Not Disturb signs are misleading (“Do…I get to disturb this guy…Not…Shit!”) to what’s enjoyable about golf (“I didn’t get a hole in one, but I did hit a guy. And that’s way more satisfying”) to sheer laziness (“I sit at my hotel at night. I think of something that’s funny, then I go get a pen and I write it down. Or if the pen’s too far away, I have to convince myself that what I thought of ain’t funny”) were fair game. And to think that the current crop of redneck/hoosier comedians will probably be inflicting their particular brand of torture on audiences for another 30 years before they’re called to that great trailer park in the sky.
In some ways, Gosh is markedly different from the comedian’s previously released shows. Most notably, it contains a large batch of jokes Hedberg was working on at the time of his death; these jokes will most likely not be familiar to listeners (some jokes were performed in various shows prior to this 2005 show). The performance is also far less polished – if a Hedberg performance could ever really be called that – than the shows captured on Mitch All Together. Occasionally it’s clear that some of the jokes are works in progress; at one point the comedian even comments that some still need work. There’s also more audience interaction on Gosh than on Hedberg’s previously released shows. In one exchange, Hedberg mishears a heckler’s name as “Phil” and asks if he works at a gas station (think about it for a minute).
Yet this release still has all the hallmarks of Hedberg at his finest: comments about his own abilities as a performer, random observations about everyday life and its absurdities, wry asides and non-sequiturs, and a very subtle bastardization of words and their connotations. He jokes at the start of the performance that after a bad show he gave at the Improv the previous night, the letter “E” had been added to the end of the venue’s name; later he says that comedy is part of his “get rich slow scheme…and it’s working.”
The names people attach to objects are skewed in a manner that’s either completely idiotic or brilliant, depending on one’s point of view, with Hedberg commenting that a “fly is very close to being called a land.” Hedberg takes common phrases and their well-known meanings and intentionally misunderstands them, asking whether a hippopotamus is just a really cool “opotamus,” joking that he had a piece of Carefree gum but was still worried, stating that he’s tired of soup of the day and that it’s time for “soup from now on, and joking that people in Venice have “canal smarts,” not street smarts.
Some of the jokes seem ridiculously obvious or silly, yet they remain damn funny even after hearing them several times. Hedberg’s drink of choice in this performance is Nyquil on the rocks, since he’s “feeling sick but sociable.” He comments that “where are they now?” shows should be about people who are easy to find (“Where’s Jay Leno? Still in Burbank”), describes a burrito as a “sleeping bag for ground beef,” explains that “when you wear glasses and talk to someone you always think they’re outside of a window,” and says that a sheet lying on the floor of his hotel was simply a ghost that had passed out.
Despite the many laughs, this release still carries a definite sense of loss with it. Though no one will likely ever really know what prompted the drug use that eventually led to Hedberg’s death – speculating is pure BS armchair psychology – what’s clear is that his death cut short the career of one of the most creative, inventive, and original comedians in many years.
For both long-time Hedberg fans as well as those unfamiliar with his routine, Gosh is essential listening and an excellent document of the comedian at his best.
Hedberg’s on-stage persona was unique: wearing sunglasses and often times performing with his eyes closed or with his hair in front of his face (a way to manage stage fright was the usual explanation), he delivered his jokes in an odd slacker cadence that could make the most banal aspects of life seem hilarious. Topics ranging from how Do Not Disturb signs are misleading (“Do…I get to disturb this guy…Not…Shit!”) to what’s enjoyable about golf (“I didn’t get a hole in one, but I did hit a guy. And that’s way more satisfying”) to sheer laziness (“I sit at my hotel at night. I think of something that’s funny, then I go get a pen and I write it down. Or if the pen’s too far away, I have to convince myself that what I thought of ain’t funny”) were fair game. And to think that the current crop of redneck/hoosier comedians will probably be inflicting their particular brand of torture on audiences for another 30 years before they’re called to that great trailer park in the sky.
In some ways, Gosh is markedly different from the comedian’s previously released shows. Most notably, it contains a large batch of jokes Hedberg was working on at the time of his death; these jokes will most likely not be familiar to listeners (some jokes were performed in various shows prior to this 2005 show). The performance is also far less polished – if a Hedberg performance could ever really be called that – than the shows captured on Mitch All Together. Occasionally it’s clear that some of the jokes are works in progress; at one point the comedian even comments that some still need work. There’s also more audience interaction on Gosh than on Hedberg’s previously released shows. In one exchange, Hedberg mishears a heckler’s name as “Phil” and asks if he works at a gas station (think about it for a minute).
Yet this release still has all the hallmarks of Hedberg at his finest: comments about his own abilities as a performer, random observations about everyday life and its absurdities, wry asides and non-sequiturs, and a very subtle bastardization of words and their connotations. He jokes at the start of the performance that after a bad show he gave at the Improv the previous night, the letter “E” had been added to the end of the venue’s name; later he says that comedy is part of his “get rich slow scheme…and it’s working.”
The names people attach to objects are skewed in a manner that’s either completely idiotic or brilliant, depending on one’s point of view, with Hedberg commenting that a “fly is very close to being called a land.” Hedberg takes common phrases and their well-known meanings and intentionally misunderstands them, asking whether a hippopotamus is just a really cool “opotamus,” joking that he had a piece of Carefree gum but was still worried, stating that he’s tired of soup of the day and that it’s time for “soup from now on, and joking that people in Venice have “canal smarts,” not street smarts.
Some of the jokes seem ridiculously obvious or silly, yet they remain damn funny even after hearing them several times. Hedberg’s drink of choice in this performance is Nyquil on the rocks, since he’s “feeling sick but sociable.” He comments that “where are they now?” shows should be about people who are easy to find (“Where’s Jay Leno? Still in Burbank”), describes a burrito as a “sleeping bag for ground beef,” explains that “when you wear glasses and talk to someone you always think they’re outside of a window,” and says that a sheet lying on the floor of his hotel was simply a ghost that had passed out.
Despite the many laughs, this release still carries a definite sense of loss with it. Though no one will likely ever really know what prompted the drug use that eventually led to Hedberg’s death – speculating is pure BS armchair psychology – what’s clear is that his death cut short the career of one of the most creative, inventive, and original comedians in many years.
For both long-time Hedberg fans as well as those unfamiliar with his routine, Gosh is essential listening and an excellent document of the comedian at his best.
Music Review: Giant Sand - proVISIONS
“Every girl is like a pearl/hearts strung along and then left stranded/this world is worn, all frayed and torn” Howe Gelb sings on “Stranded Pearl,” the opening track on proVISIONS, Giant Sand’s first album in nearly four years. A slow, brooding song ostensibly about a woman and a glass-eyed soldier whose relationship to each other is vague, it sets the tone for most of the country-tinged tunes that follow. An album that establishes a definite somber tone – crying in your beer is perfectly understandable in this case – it evokes isolation and restlessness as Gelb’s characters head toward various personal defeats.Images of hard travel and its cruel byproduct, loneliness, run through several songs. Gelb’s characters find themselves stuck on the fringes of an unnamed place in an unnamed town, knee deep in the dark stuff. The narrator in “Out There” admits with detachment that he’s “just so home sick/and just so sick of home.” The song provides little hint of resolution, only an acknowledgement of mortality for someone who will become “all grey and faded/all worn and jaded.” Similarly, “Spiral” deals heavily in despair and a hint of apocalyptic and wartime foreboding. Against a backdrop of sparse piano and even sparser background singing, Gelb says that “there’s a lot of people out there having a hard time tonight/among the whispers of revolution and shouts of hang on tight/a lot of crippled hearts out there, some will never mend.”
Other songs take a more sinister turn. “Pitch and Sway,” heavy with political undertones, lets the listener know that some serious shit is about to go down: “way out on the horizon there’s a monsoon waiting… with the darkness here prevailing even stars are taking cover/the sheets held up once for sailing are going to bury another.” The song also features a melodic instrumental break that heightens its overall tension. Even the closing line of “stand up and face your fears in stormy atmospheres” on final track “Well Enough Alone” comes across more like a warning than a statement of perseverance or bravery.
Perhaps because of his background (Gelb is based in Tucson), close ties to “southwestern” bands like Calexico, or the lengthy list of musicians he’s inspired, Gelb is often wrongly characterized as an alt.country poster boy or city father. With songs that incorporate various musical styles and for the most part are not explicitly set in the American Southwest (though that very famous of tragic towns, Galveston, makes an appearance), the album is in many ways more expansive that previous Giant Sand releases and should dispel that image of Gelb in some fans’ minds.
With assists from Isobel Campbell (“Stranded Pearl”), M. Ward (the well-worn trucker tale “Can Do”), and New Pornographer and sometime lingerie auctioneer Neko Case (“Without a Word”), Giant Sand’s proVISIONS is an atmospheric, layered album about loss and isolation. Though a wry sense of humor sometimes tries to punch through (“don’t want to live forever but another generation would be nice,” Gelb dryly jokes on “Spiral”), the overall tone of the album is one of loss and defeat. Rarely has such bleak subject matter sounded so good.
Other songs take a more sinister turn. “Pitch and Sway,” heavy with political undertones, lets the listener know that some serious shit is about to go down: “way out on the horizon there’s a monsoon waiting… with the darkness here prevailing even stars are taking cover/the sheets held up once for sailing are going to bury another.” The song also features a melodic instrumental break that heightens its overall tension. Even the closing line of “stand up and face your fears in stormy atmospheres” on final track “Well Enough Alone” comes across more like a warning than a statement of perseverance or bravery.
Perhaps because of his background (Gelb is based in Tucson), close ties to “southwestern” bands like Calexico, or the lengthy list of musicians he’s inspired, Gelb is often wrongly characterized as an alt.country poster boy or city father. With songs that incorporate various musical styles and for the most part are not explicitly set in the American Southwest (though that very famous of tragic towns, Galveston, makes an appearance), the album is in many ways more expansive that previous Giant Sand releases and should dispel that image of Gelb in some fans’ minds.
With assists from Isobel Campbell (“Stranded Pearl”), M. Ward (the well-worn trucker tale “Can Do”), and New Pornographer and sometime lingerie auctioneer Neko Case (“Without a Word”), Giant Sand’s proVISIONS is an atmospheric, layered album about loss and isolation. Though a wry sense of humor sometimes tries to punch through (“don’t want to live forever but another generation would be nice,” Gelb dryly jokes on “Spiral”), the overall tone of the album is one of loss and defeat. Rarely has such bleak subject matter sounded so good.
Book Review: The Indie Band Survival Guide - The Complete Manual for the Do-It-Yourself Musician by Randy Chertkow and Jason Feehan
If your grand musical plan to jump start your career is to win American Idol and enter into a life of indentured servitude to a mega conglomerate, ignore Randy Chertkow and Jason Feehan’s The Indie Band Survival Guide. However, if you’re an independent musician without a label who feels your unique blend of goth-thrash-folk-punk-polka could reach an audience if you only knew how to go about it, consult this book. Covering topics such as setting up an effective website, creating and maintaining a consistent brand and message, getting your music recorded, distributed, and heard at a global level, getting booked for live shows, shaping and conducting an effective PR campaign, and navigating various copyright and publishing legal landmines, Chertkow and Feehan’s detailed and well organized book is essential reading for both veteran and budding independent musicians.The two authors certainly have the experience and background to craft such a book. As members of the Chicago-based band Beatnik Turtle, they have recorded 18 albums, written music for films and the idiot box, and licensed music to the ABC Family Channel, all without the support (or interference) of a record label. The authors bring this real-world experience to their logically structured and easy-to-navigate book.
The impact of the Internet on independent musicians — and specifically how it has revolutionized how people discover, discuss, and consume music — forms the backbone of much of the authors’ tips for succeeding as an independent musician. Chertkow and Feehan persuasively show how the Internet can play a major role in enabling musicians to get their music heard by a global audience, instead of just being a vast wasteland where a pervert might try to lure you somewhere. They systematically show how the Internet is a powerful tool in everything from getting an artist’s music heard via podcasts, blogs, and other new media, to developing and maintaining important relationships with music venues, promoters, and journalists. One of the more interesting points the authors make is that the independent musicians should consider focusing on niche media, markets, and websites when trying to get their music heard and publicized. This means that while your concept album about a small-town necrophiliac who was just elected county coroner might get ignored on iTunes, it might find a dedicated — if demented and incredibly disturbed — following if targeted to a specific Internet audience. As a real life, and non-offensive example, the authors describe how a song they wrote about the movie Star Wars led to a video mash-up that received over 15,000 plays at the movie’s official website.
An underlying argument that runs throughout the book is that musicians do not need a record label to cultivate a loyal fan base. Certainly the authors’ success with their own band supports this assertion. However, it should also be noted that the authors have a professional background that is likely far stronger than that of other musicians: Chertkow is an IT professional in a Fortune 100 company, and Feehan is a practicing attorney. This combination of tech and legal savvy is probably not the norm for independent musicians; many of the ones I’ve met over the years have a hard enough time remembering to put on deodorant in the morning. For some musicians, the support of a record label might be a welcome avenue for getting their music distributed and concerts booked; it should also be noted that today’s “best known” indie bands are signed to labels.Despite a few other minor flaws -- the book doesn’t contain an index and the authors plug the book’s website many, many times -- The Indie Band Survival Guide is a complete and comprehensive guide that can benefit all independent musicians.
The impact of the Internet on independent musicians — and specifically how it has revolutionized how people discover, discuss, and consume music — forms the backbone of much of the authors’ tips for succeeding as an independent musician. Chertkow and Feehan persuasively show how the Internet can play a major role in enabling musicians to get their music heard by a global audience, instead of just being a vast wasteland where a pervert might try to lure you somewhere. They systematically show how the Internet is a powerful tool in everything from getting an artist’s music heard via podcasts, blogs, and other new media, to developing and maintaining important relationships with music venues, promoters, and journalists. One of the more interesting points the authors make is that the independent musicians should consider focusing on niche media, markets, and websites when trying to get their music heard and publicized. This means that while your concept album about a small-town necrophiliac who was just elected county coroner might get ignored on iTunes, it might find a dedicated — if demented and incredibly disturbed — following if targeted to a specific Internet audience. As a real life, and non-offensive example, the authors describe how a song they wrote about the movie Star Wars led to a video mash-up that received over 15,000 plays at the movie’s official website.
An underlying argument that runs throughout the book is that musicians do not need a record label to cultivate a loyal fan base. Certainly the authors’ success with their own band supports this assertion. However, it should also be noted that the authors have a professional background that is likely far stronger than that of other musicians: Chertkow is an IT professional in a Fortune 100 company, and Feehan is a practicing attorney. This combination of tech and legal savvy is probably not the norm for independent musicians; many of the ones I’ve met over the years have a hard enough time remembering to put on deodorant in the morning. For some musicians, the support of a record label might be a welcome avenue for getting their music distributed and concerts booked; it should also be noted that today’s “best known” indie bands are signed to labels.Despite a few other minor flaws -- the book doesn’t contain an index and the authors plug the book’s website many, many times -- The Indie Band Survival Guide is a complete and comprehensive guide that can benefit all independent musicians.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Music Review - The Baseball Project - Vol. 1: Frozen Ropes and Dying Quails
As the story goes, in 1992 Steve Wynn (Dream Syndicate) and Scott McCaughey (Minus 5 and Young Fresh Fellows) met for the first time in the bathroom of a concert venue in Seattle. They eventually discovered a shared interest in baseball and planned to create an album that focused on the sport’s history and players. Of such chance and borderline sanitary encounters are great ideas born.
15 years later – the duration of some American League games these days – the duo began writing and recording the album that would finally be released in 2008 as Vol. 1: Frozen Ropes and Dying Quails. Rounded out with drummer Linda Pitmon (Giant Smog) and Peter Buck (you know the band), the album contains mostly narrative songs about baseball’s history and folklore, and, variously, its legendary, eccentric, or otherwise tragic players. Incorporating musical styles like folk, pop, and indie (the haunting and melodic song “Fernando” includes a bit of each), the album is alternately humorous and poignant.
On its surface, the album is a true geekfest for hardcore baseball fans, who might enjoy the album more than those not familiar with the players and stories recalled in the songs. If the number of obscure players recounted here is any indication, Wynn and McCaughey clearly know their baseball past and present and could probably field a seriously badass fantasy team. “Harvey Haddix” is a damn funny tune that questions the definition of success and name checks all 17 pitchers who have thrown a perfect game. It’s probably also the first time Cy Young and Addie Joss have been mentioned in the same song. Another song explores the death of Ed Delahanty, a big swinging, hard-drinking, and skull-busting player who died under mysterious circumstances at Niagara Falls in 1903. Songs about more widely-known figures like Satchel Paige, Ted Williams, and Jackie Robinson provide some relief for those with only a cursory knowledge of the game’s history.
Yet it’s not accurate to dismiss the album as a pure vanity or one-off project solely about baseball. Many of the songs evoke larger themes and universal emotions by simply using baseball’s history and mythology as a backdrop.
Several songs explore how a public figure’s persona and legacy are shaped by both fellow players and the public. “Gratitude (for Curt Flood)” is written from the point of view of the former Cardinals player, who successfully challenged the reserve clause that prevented players from becoming free agents. And boy, is he pissed; the song finds Flood unrecognized, unappreciated, and ignored by the game’s current millionaires: “On the day that I died and they laid me in the ground where was everybody? They couldn’t be found. I’m gone and they don’t know my name. No plaque, no speech, no hall of fame.”
Similarly, “Broken Man” takes a largely sympathetic approach to the story of former slugger and hulking wall of muscle Mark McGwire, who went from being baseball’s savior as he chased and eventually shattered Roger Maris’ home run record in 1998 to an outcast after his evasive and embarrassing showing during the Senate’s steroid investigation confirmed his guilt to many.
Other songs are heavily saturated with nostalgia and mortality. Opening track “Past Time” invokes the names of players from past eras and subtly questions baseball’s relevance in our current era (and also features a nice rhyme of “the Dimaggios, Shoeless Joe, Minnie Minoso, and Yo La Tengo”). “Long Before My Time” finds a still-young Sandy Koufax aged beyond his 30 years, struggling to decide whether to retire and questioning what the game has really given him: “The summer game has let me down, standing lonely on the mound. A crossroads only I can see between oblivion and destiny.”
Standout track “Sometimes I Dream of Willie Mays” continues these themes as it contrasts the narrator’s fond memories of going to games with his father to see Mays in his 1965 prime with seeing Mays in 1973, when the outfielder’s skills had greatly diminished. It’s a layered and complex song; the narrator looks back at these games with both fondness and a twinge of sadness. The aging figure of Mays serves as a reminder that those days are long gone.
The album’s liner notes and design also deserve mention. The liner notes provide sufficient historical background to the songs and thus add much-needed information for those who don’t know Frank Viola from Frankie Valli; after all, Harvey Haddix and Ed Delahanty aren’t exactly household names. The album’s design is likewise superb. Clever without being overly cute, the back cover lists the song order like a manager’s lineup card, and also has each band member’s name included on their own vintage Topps baseball card (in the uniform of each member’s hometown team, no less).
As a concept album about baseball, Frozen Ropes and Dying Quails is filled with enough baseball lore to make even Peter Gammons giddy. What makes it truly succeed is its ability to convey larger themes that extend far beyond the confines of the game.
15 years later – the duration of some American League games these days – the duo began writing and recording the album that would finally be released in 2008 as Vol. 1: Frozen Ropes and Dying Quails. Rounded out with drummer Linda Pitmon (Giant Smog) and Peter Buck (you know the band), the album contains mostly narrative songs about baseball’s history and folklore, and, variously, its legendary, eccentric, or otherwise tragic players. Incorporating musical styles like folk, pop, and indie (the haunting and melodic song “Fernando” includes a bit of each), the album is alternately humorous and poignant.
On its surface, the album is a true geekfest for hardcore baseball fans, who might enjoy the album more than those not familiar with the players and stories recalled in the songs. If the number of obscure players recounted here is any indication, Wynn and McCaughey clearly know their baseball past and present and could probably field a seriously badass fantasy team. “Harvey Haddix” is a damn funny tune that questions the definition of success and name checks all 17 pitchers who have thrown a perfect game. It’s probably also the first time Cy Young and Addie Joss have been mentioned in the same song. Another song explores the death of Ed Delahanty, a big swinging, hard-drinking, and skull-busting player who died under mysterious circumstances at Niagara Falls in 1903. Songs about more widely-known figures like Satchel Paige, Ted Williams, and Jackie Robinson provide some relief for those with only a cursory knowledge of the game’s history.
Yet it’s not accurate to dismiss the album as a pure vanity or one-off project solely about baseball. Many of the songs evoke larger themes and universal emotions by simply using baseball’s history and mythology as a backdrop.
Several songs explore how a public figure’s persona and legacy are shaped by both fellow players and the public. “Gratitude (for Curt Flood)” is written from the point of view of the former Cardinals player, who successfully challenged the reserve clause that prevented players from becoming free agents. And boy, is he pissed; the song finds Flood unrecognized, unappreciated, and ignored by the game’s current millionaires: “On the day that I died and they laid me in the ground where was everybody? They couldn’t be found. I’m gone and they don’t know my name. No plaque, no speech, no hall of fame.”
Similarly, “Broken Man” takes a largely sympathetic approach to the story of former slugger and hulking wall of muscle Mark McGwire, who went from being baseball’s savior as he chased and eventually shattered Roger Maris’ home run record in 1998 to an outcast after his evasive and embarrassing showing during the Senate’s steroid investigation confirmed his guilt to many.
Other songs are heavily saturated with nostalgia and mortality. Opening track “Past Time” invokes the names of players from past eras and subtly questions baseball’s relevance in our current era (and also features a nice rhyme of “the Dimaggios, Shoeless Joe, Minnie Minoso, and Yo La Tengo”). “Long Before My Time” finds a still-young Sandy Koufax aged beyond his 30 years, struggling to decide whether to retire and questioning what the game has really given him: “The summer game has let me down, standing lonely on the mound. A crossroads only I can see between oblivion and destiny.”
Standout track “Sometimes I Dream of Willie Mays” continues these themes as it contrasts the narrator’s fond memories of going to games with his father to see Mays in his 1965 prime with seeing Mays in 1973, when the outfielder’s skills had greatly diminished. It’s a layered and complex song; the narrator looks back at these games with both fondness and a twinge of sadness. The aging figure of Mays serves as a reminder that those days are long gone.
The album’s liner notes and design also deserve mention. The liner notes provide sufficient historical background to the songs and thus add much-needed information for those who don’t know Frank Viola from Frankie Valli; after all, Harvey Haddix and Ed Delahanty aren’t exactly household names. The album’s design is likewise superb. Clever without being overly cute, the back cover lists the song order like a manager’s lineup card, and also has each band member’s name included on their own vintage Topps baseball card (in the uniform of each member’s hometown team, no less).
As a concept album about baseball, Frozen Ropes and Dying Quails is filled with enough baseball lore to make even Peter Gammons giddy. What makes it truly succeed is its ability to convey larger themes that extend far beyond the confines of the game.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Book Review: On the Road with the Ramones by Monte A. Melnick and Frank Meyer
Equal parts oral history of a band and memoir of a tour manager, On the Road with the Ramones is essentially a Ramones fan’s bible. At turns both hilarious and poignant, it’s a sympathetic yet brutally honest account of the band, as told by those who witnessed the band’s many highs and lows over their lengthy musical career. Now republished with details about the recent death of Johnny Ramone and a brief update regarding the surviving Ramones, Frank Meyer’s and Monte Melnick’s book still remains one of the best musical memoirs to be published.
In roles that included tour manager, surrogate father, van driver, human punching bag, intermediary when certain band members weren’t on speaking terms, and occasional sound man – CJ Ramone likens Melnick’s job to “trying to babysit special-needs kids” – Melnick was certainly a key figure in the band’s story. His book, complete with numerous photographs and enough various band memorabilia to make sick musos insanely jealous, is an essential read for anyone with even a passing interest in music history.
Although both Melnick and many of the book’s contributors clearly share a definite sympathy and affection for the Ramones as both a band and as people, the book isn’t a fawning, biased piece of apologia. Indeed, the contributors’ willingness to address the band’s flaws and dysfunctions creates a far better understanding of each Ramone. The book’s not quite as direct, or as shocking, as Crystal Zevon’s recent oral history of ex-husband Warren Zevon, but it’s close.
Of the four original Ramones, Tommy receives perhaps the most sympathetic treatment. John Holmstrom, who also supplied the perfectly cartoonish cover art for the book, plainly states that the band “fell apart when Tommy left… He was the glue of the Ramones.” Tommy also receives much credit throughout the book for being a key component in shaping the Ramones sound; indeed, Tommy produced the band’s first four albums.
Lead singer Joey Ramone is essentially portrayed with great sympathy as well. At times painfully awkward and shy, many of the comments about Joey focus on both his overall gentle nature and his various physical and mental ailments, especially his eccentricities that were most likely signs of OCD (long before the disorder even had a name). Coupled with accounts of the singer’s death from cancer in 2001, it’s sometimes difficult and disturbing reading.
The commentary regarding the final two original Ramones, Dee Dee and Johnny, is frequently far from flattering. While Dee Dee’s significant contributions to the band are acknowledged (the lyricist behind some of the Ramones’ best songs, he even continued to provide material for the band after he was ousted), many of the interviews describe how the bassist treated himself like a pharmaceutical pin cushion, which in turn greatly altered his behavior. Most contributors agree that Dee Dee was a different person when sober, often times quiet, reserved, and polite. Possibly bi-polar and/or split personality, numerous comments recall how Dee Dee was intimidating and wildly unpredictable due to his drug intake; photographer Bob Gruen says that the bassist “used to walk around without a shirt on in the middle of the night carrying a baseball bat. He was a scary guy. You didn’t want to be on his bad list.” Dee Dee’s addictions would claim his life via an accidental overdose in 2002.
Many of the comments about guitarist Johnny focus on his intense focus and discipline on making the Ramones a success; one commentator goes so far as to say that “Johnny was a super hard-ass, but… they probably wouldn’t even be a band if he hadn’t taken control.” Yet this single-mindedness also came with some baggage. Johnny is often depicted as moody, domineering, aggressive, and militaristic; musician Cheetah Chrome says “we used to call them the Marones because Johnny was such a drill sergeant. They’re not the Marines – they’re the Marones.”
Johnny’s right-wing politics and racist tendencies are also the source of much discussion. Allegedly a card carrying member of the KKK (and the possible inspiration behind the song “The KKK Took My Baby Away”), the book’s contributors disagree over whether Johnny was racist or just trying to wind people up. Agent John Giddings wryly comments that the guitarist “was more right wing than Attila the Hun.”
The book is rounded out by a wonderful collection of various odds and ends. The contributions of the various later band members – Marky, CJ, Richie, and Dopey (wait, wrong group) – are finally acknowledged as key pieces in the band’s history. The importance of the band’s dedicated road crew is discussed, and the book offers a nice insider’s view of what it’s like doing the grunt work that makes a concert tour possible. The band’s relentless touring, legacy, and impact on later musicians are examined without any of the gross hyperbole that sometimes creeps into such histories. There are plenty of stories of hotel hijinks and practical jokes, some of them extremely juvenile and thus extremely funny, to break the sometimes heavy tone of the book. With terrific photos and enough memorabilia to satisfy even the most geeked-out fan, the book also serves as an excellent visual history of how the band was marketed and promoted.
Yet what remains most striking is that the band was able to overcome its dysfunction for over 20 years. The band’s members were never particularly close; Melnick likens the relationship between Joey and Johnny to a marriage that stays together for the sake of the children. While offstage the band had serious differences and their own demons to cope with, by all admissions they were consummate professionals onstage.
On the Road with the Ramones tells the band’s history with both affection and honesty. It paints a vivid portrait of each band member as a person, not merely as a punk stereotype or musical persona. Moving, heartbreaking, and hilarious, it’s still the most thorough and objective study of the band to date.
In roles that included tour manager, surrogate father, van driver, human punching bag, intermediary when certain band members weren’t on speaking terms, and occasional sound man – CJ Ramone likens Melnick’s job to “trying to babysit special-needs kids” – Melnick was certainly a key figure in the band’s story. His book, complete with numerous photographs and enough various band memorabilia to make sick musos insanely jealous, is an essential read for anyone with even a passing interest in music history.
Although both Melnick and many of the book’s contributors clearly share a definite sympathy and affection for the Ramones as both a band and as people, the book isn’t a fawning, biased piece of apologia. Indeed, the contributors’ willingness to address the band’s flaws and dysfunctions creates a far better understanding of each Ramone. The book’s not quite as direct, or as shocking, as Crystal Zevon’s recent oral history of ex-husband Warren Zevon, but it’s close.
Of the four original Ramones, Tommy receives perhaps the most sympathetic treatment. John Holmstrom, who also supplied the perfectly cartoonish cover art for the book, plainly states that the band “fell apart when Tommy left… He was the glue of the Ramones.” Tommy also receives much credit throughout the book for being a key component in shaping the Ramones sound; indeed, Tommy produced the band’s first four albums.
Lead singer Joey Ramone is essentially portrayed with great sympathy as well. At times painfully awkward and shy, many of the comments about Joey focus on both his overall gentle nature and his various physical and mental ailments, especially his eccentricities that were most likely signs of OCD (long before the disorder even had a name). Coupled with accounts of the singer’s death from cancer in 2001, it’s sometimes difficult and disturbing reading.
The commentary regarding the final two original Ramones, Dee Dee and Johnny, is frequently far from flattering. While Dee Dee’s significant contributions to the band are acknowledged (the lyricist behind some of the Ramones’ best songs, he even continued to provide material for the band after he was ousted), many of the interviews describe how the bassist treated himself like a pharmaceutical pin cushion, which in turn greatly altered his behavior. Most contributors agree that Dee Dee was a different person when sober, often times quiet, reserved, and polite. Possibly bi-polar and/or split personality, numerous comments recall how Dee Dee was intimidating and wildly unpredictable due to his drug intake; photographer Bob Gruen says that the bassist “used to walk around without a shirt on in the middle of the night carrying a baseball bat. He was a scary guy. You didn’t want to be on his bad list.” Dee Dee’s addictions would claim his life via an accidental overdose in 2002.
Many of the comments about guitarist Johnny focus on his intense focus and discipline on making the Ramones a success; one commentator goes so far as to say that “Johnny was a super hard-ass, but… they probably wouldn’t even be a band if he hadn’t taken control.” Yet this single-mindedness also came with some baggage. Johnny is often depicted as moody, domineering, aggressive, and militaristic; musician Cheetah Chrome says “we used to call them the Marones because Johnny was such a drill sergeant. They’re not the Marines – they’re the Marones.”
Johnny’s right-wing politics and racist tendencies are also the source of much discussion. Allegedly a card carrying member of the KKK (and the possible inspiration behind the song “The KKK Took My Baby Away”), the book’s contributors disagree over whether Johnny was racist or just trying to wind people up. Agent John Giddings wryly comments that the guitarist “was more right wing than Attila the Hun.”
The book is rounded out by a wonderful collection of various odds and ends. The contributions of the various later band members – Marky, CJ, Richie, and Dopey (wait, wrong group) – are finally acknowledged as key pieces in the band’s history. The importance of the band’s dedicated road crew is discussed, and the book offers a nice insider’s view of what it’s like doing the grunt work that makes a concert tour possible. The band’s relentless touring, legacy, and impact on later musicians are examined without any of the gross hyperbole that sometimes creeps into such histories. There are plenty of stories of hotel hijinks and practical jokes, some of them extremely juvenile and thus extremely funny, to break the sometimes heavy tone of the book. With terrific photos and enough memorabilia to satisfy even the most geeked-out fan, the book also serves as an excellent visual history of how the band was marketed and promoted.
Yet what remains most striking is that the band was able to overcome its dysfunction for over 20 years. The band’s members were never particularly close; Melnick likens the relationship between Joey and Johnny to a marriage that stays together for the sake of the children. While offstage the band had serious differences and their own demons to cope with, by all admissions they were consummate professionals onstage.
On the Road with the Ramones tells the band’s history with both affection and honesty. It paints a vivid portrait of each band member as a person, not merely as a punk stereotype or musical persona. Moving, heartbreaking, and hilarious, it’s still the most thorough and objective study of the band to date.
Music Review: Charlie Louvin - Steps to Heaven
Here’s hoping we’re all doing as well as Charlie Louvin by the time we reach the age of 81, instead of slobbering into our beers, boring the pants off strangers with exaggerated tales of our glory days, and fighting off senility. A recent surge of activity that would put much younger musicians to shame has seen Louvin tour with Lucinda Williams, appear at the Bonnaroo and Hardly Strictly Bluegrass festivals, and the release of 2007’s Charlie Louvin (when you’ve been recording since the Truman administration, I suppose you eventually run out of album titles). With contributions from Jeff Tweedy, Elvis Costello, and Will Oldham, many critics rightly went batshit crazy for that album.
Though this resurgence probably won’t make Louvin a household name – the bulk of his audience will likely remain the more hardcore music history buffs and fellow musicians – it has certainly led to increased critical and media attention for the performer.Louvin’s Steps to Heaven is the first of two albums for the Alabama-born musician planned for release in 2008. Consisting of traditional gospel tunes, as well two Louvin Brothers originals, the album was produced by Mark Nevers and features a three sister strong gospel choir, Derrick Lee on piano, and Chris Scruggs on bass and electric guitar.
The risk any religious album runs is being excessively preachy or dogmatic, and thus turning off secular listeners by discounting the music in an attempt to spread a very specific message (similar to a truly heinous Christian rock album or even Bob Dylan’s Saved and Shot of Love debacles). Thankfully, Louvin’s album doesn’t have this particular character flaw; listeners who agree with every word as well as those who can quote The God Delusion from memory will both likely enjoy the album.
In many ways the album is reminiscent of Johnny Cash’s American Recordings releases. Like the best moments of those albums, Louvin’s voice, ranging from weary and ragged to powerful and confident, is perhaps Steps’ most striking and immediate feature. His voice carries the weight of a lifetime of experience with it; coupled with Nevers’ warm production and the band’s contributions, the songs take on a certain immediacy and impact that might not exist if sung by a younger musician or played in a different arrangement.
Many of the songs strongly evoke an acceptance of mortality without any fear of death; the promise of an afterlife runs through the songs. As interpreted by Louvin, these traditional songs are meant to offer comfort; standout interpretations of “How Beautiful Heaven Must Be” and “If We Never Meet Again This Side of Heaven” are perhaps the clearest expressions of this theme. This overtly religious theme is explored in depth without becoming overbearing; still, any listener needing a quick hit of songs about humankind’s ultimate demise can give Tom Waits’ Bone Machine a spin as needed.
Yet the album does have some drawbacks. Most noticeably, sometimes the background singing drowns out Louvin’s voice or is occasionally overwrought and affected. “There’s a Higher Power” and “Where We’ll Never Grow Old” are the most egregious offenders.Despite these few missteps, Charlie Louvin’s Steps to Heaven is an excellent release. The production is warm and clean, the musicianship is spot-on, and Louvin’s voice evokes a world of emotions and textures. Though it’s an album rooted in a very specific faith and set of beliefs, it doesn’t attempt to force such beliefs on the listener. It’s a worthy entry in Louvin’s varied and lengthy career.
Though this resurgence probably won’t make Louvin a household name – the bulk of his audience will likely remain the more hardcore music history buffs and fellow musicians – it has certainly led to increased critical and media attention for the performer.Louvin’s Steps to Heaven is the first of two albums for the Alabama-born musician planned for release in 2008. Consisting of traditional gospel tunes, as well two Louvin Brothers originals, the album was produced by Mark Nevers and features a three sister strong gospel choir, Derrick Lee on piano, and Chris Scruggs on bass and electric guitar.
The risk any religious album runs is being excessively preachy or dogmatic, and thus turning off secular listeners by discounting the music in an attempt to spread a very specific message (similar to a truly heinous Christian rock album or even Bob Dylan’s Saved and Shot of Love debacles). Thankfully, Louvin’s album doesn’t have this particular character flaw; listeners who agree with every word as well as those who can quote The God Delusion from memory will both likely enjoy the album.
In many ways the album is reminiscent of Johnny Cash’s American Recordings releases. Like the best moments of those albums, Louvin’s voice, ranging from weary and ragged to powerful and confident, is perhaps Steps’ most striking and immediate feature. His voice carries the weight of a lifetime of experience with it; coupled with Nevers’ warm production and the band’s contributions, the songs take on a certain immediacy and impact that might not exist if sung by a younger musician or played in a different arrangement.
Many of the songs strongly evoke an acceptance of mortality without any fear of death; the promise of an afterlife runs through the songs. As interpreted by Louvin, these traditional songs are meant to offer comfort; standout interpretations of “How Beautiful Heaven Must Be” and “If We Never Meet Again This Side of Heaven” are perhaps the clearest expressions of this theme. This overtly religious theme is explored in depth without becoming overbearing; still, any listener needing a quick hit of songs about humankind’s ultimate demise can give Tom Waits’ Bone Machine a spin as needed.
Yet the album does have some drawbacks. Most noticeably, sometimes the background singing drowns out Louvin’s voice or is occasionally overwrought and affected. “There’s a Higher Power” and “Where We’ll Never Grow Old” are the most egregious offenders.Despite these few missteps, Charlie Louvin’s Steps to Heaven is an excellent release. The production is warm and clean, the musicianship is spot-on, and Louvin’s voice evokes a world of emotions and textures. Though it’s an album rooted in a very specific faith and set of beliefs, it doesn’t attempt to force such beliefs on the listener. It’s a worthy entry in Louvin’s varied and lengthy career.
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